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"Jrederick Q.Johnion 



T. S. Tfenhon & Company 

^ublhher^ • Chicago 

^rice 50 Cent:s 




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AARON BOGGS, FRESHMAN 

By Walter Ben Hare. Comedy in 3 acts; 8 males, 8 
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AFTER THE GAME 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 2 acts; 1 male, 9 
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AS A WOMAN THINKETH 

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AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW 

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CLUBBING A HUSBAND 

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T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



FIFTY-FIFTY 

A Three -Act Farce of 
Love, Luck and Laughter 



BY 

Frederick G. Johnson 

AUTHOR OF 

Mary's Millions," "Civilizing Susie/' "Foiled, By 

Heck!" "The Fun Revue," "Gimme Them 

Papers!" "It Might Happen," etc. 




CHICAGO 

T. S. DENISON & COMPANY 

Publishers 






Please Read Carefully 




HE PROFESSIONAL STAGE-RIGHTS 

in this play are strictly reserved and all 
applications for its use should be addressed 
to the publishers. Amateurs may obtain 
permission to produce it on payment of a 
fee of fifteen dollars ($15.00) for each performance, in 
advance. Correspondence on this subject should be ad- 
dressed to T. S. Denison & Company, 623 S. Wabash 
Ave., Chicago, 111. 

n n 

Attention is called to the penalties provided by the 
Copyright Law of the United States of America in force 
July I, 1909, for any infringement of the owner's rights, 
as follows: 

Sec. 28. That any person who wilfully and for profit shall 
infringe any copyright secured by this Act, or who shall know- 
ingly and wilfully aid or abet such infringement, shall be 
deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction thereof 
shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding one year 
or by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars nor more than 
one thousand dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court. 

n n 

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY T. S. DENISON & COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



DEC -5 71 



FIFTY-FIFTY 

FOR FIVE MEN AND FIVE WOMEN 

THE PEOPLE IN IT 

(As We Meet Them) 

Henry Brown An Artist 

Paul Green An Author 

Patrick O'Malley A Janitor 

Mrs. Podge A Landlady 

Sophie Bland A Dancer 

May Dexter An Enthusiast 

Mrs. Hawley A Collector 

Smudge '. A Valet 

Cap' A Wanderer 

Josephine A Seeker 



Time: The present 
Place; New York City, and the Adirondack Mountains. 



Synopsis of Scenes 

Act I. The pals' studio in a New York lodging house, 
one morning. 

Act II. The same, a week later. 

Act III. The pals* bungalow in the Adirondack 
Mountains, one afternoon a month later. 



Time of Playing — About two hours and a quarter. 
5 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Henry — A sprightly young fellow, good-looking and 
likeable. Fast talker and quick in action. Optimistic as 
a rule, but sometimes inclined to look at things gloomily. 
Quick tempered, and just as quick to make up. Act I, 
old lounging-robe, flannel shirt, dilapidated house slip- 
pers. Act II, neat, stylish clothes. Act III, sports outfit, 
such as flannel or palm beach. 

Paul — Almost a counterpart of Henry, but less in- 
, clined to be serious. The pals' devotion to each other is 
a thing that is felt rather than shown. It underlies even 
their quarrels, which you have a feeling are never more 
than half in earnest. Act I, much-worn business suit, 
turndown collar, flowing black tie. Act II, modish busi- 
ness suit. In the second act the pals may well have new 
suits of contrasting colors, such as blue and gray or blue 
and brown, or whatever the favored tones happen to be. 
Act III, outing clothes. The pals' costumes should be 
sufficiently contrasted rather than twin-like. 

O'Malley — Irish character part, middle-aged or 
elderly. Worn overalls and cloth cap, or worn working 
clothes, such as a furnace-man might wear. (If desired, 
he may "double" for Cap^ in Act III.) 

Mrs. Podge — A comely widow of about forty. Very 
stolid, with no sense of humor. Neatly but plainly 
dressed as befits her occupation. 

Sophie — A sweet, lovable girl of about twenty. 
Wears appropriate gowns throughout. Spanish dancing- 
girl's costume in Act II. 

May — A little older than Sophie, and a bit more 
breezy in type. Appropriate costumes throughout. As 
"Roxana" in Act III, outlandish old-maid disguise that 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



can oe thrown aside easily; "rubber-tired" spectacles, 
loud bonnet with false curls attached. 

Mrs. Hawley — A society matron of about forty, with 
a touch of the parvenue. Somewhat haughty and conde- 
scending. Dresses stylishly. Carries lorgnette. (If de- 
sired, either she or Mrs. Podge can "double" for Jose- 
phine in Act. III.) 

Smudge — Droll young darky. Wears white coat and 
long white apron. 

Cap^ — Typical "old salt." Rough blue clothing, blue 
flannel shirt, black bow tie and a seafarin' cap. 

Josephine — Middle-aged, strenuous and uncultured. 
Superfluous finery gives her a ludicrous all-dressed-up 
appearance. 



PERSONAL PROPERTIES 
Act I. 

Henry — Palette and brushes; dark felt hat. 

Paul — Pipe, matches. 

Sophie — Heavy envelope about 9 by 12 inches, con- 
taining a typed note and a bulky typed manuscript 
to give to Paul. 

Mrs. Podge — Rent bill to put on table; handkerchief; 
large basket with laundry. 

Mrs. Hawley — Handbag containing folding check-book 
and fountain pen. 

Act II. 
Henry — Palette and brushes. 
Mrs. Podge — Tray with light breakfast for two; three 

letters to give to Plenry. 
O'Malley — Two cardboard suitboxes; red bandana 

handkerchief; special delivery envelope, containing 

letter and check, to give to Henry. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



May — Telegram. 
Paul — Two suitcases. 

Act III. 
Smudge — Tray, with bottle containing cold tea or ginger 

ale, and seltzer bottle; letter to give to Paul. 
Henry — Palette and brushes. 
May — Rolled poster; freak hat and curls. 

For stage props, see descriptions of settings. 



SCENE PLOT. 
Acts One and Two. 

Back Drop showing Sky and House Tops 



Door 



r^ 



Window 



n 

Chair 



Easy Chair 
Q Chair 



Screen 



Ease 



Bed 



Door 



a Box 



Dresser^ 



Right 




Act Three. 

Hall Backing 




Left 






1 1 




1 

Door 


Chair 

n 


1 1 
n Chair EaseM 


^ O Stool 


\ 

Door 


h <^C h a?r 


Table 


\ 


^Fire-place 




\ 



Right 



Left 



STAGE DIRECTIONS 



Up stage means away from footlights; down stage, 
near footlights. The actor is supposed to be facing the 
audience. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



The First Act. 

Scene: The joint studio of Henry Brown and Paul 
Green in the attic of a cheap lodging house in New 
York City. A wide, low window at the hack gives a 
view of city housetops beyond. There is a door on 
either side, near the back. The door on the right leads 
to the hallway. The left door remains closed and un- 
used during this act. Just above the left door, in the 
corner, is a cheap iron bed, partially hidden by a 
large Japanese screen. Below the left door, against 
the wall, is a bureau. An old library table is down 
right of center, with a battered chair on either side. 
Near the hall door is an ancient easy chair. Down 
left of center is an artist's easel holding a canvas, and 
on top of the frame is tacked a photograph of a young 
girl. The easel is set so that the picture is not visible 
to the audience. There is a wooden box for a stool 
just above the easel. Two or three old rugs on the 
floor. Some unfinished paintings are strewn about, 
and also a black canvas. 

Everything indicates the extreme poverty of the oc- 
cupants, though there is an apparent effort of keep- 
ing up appearances by studio decorations. The mirror 
of the old dresser is streaked with soap to give it a 
cracked effect, and on the dresser are collars, brushes, 
ties, etc. On the table is a veteran typewriting ma- 
chine, and it is littered also with newspapers, manu- 
scripts, writing material, a bunch of pawn tickets, an 

9 



10 FIFTY-FIFTY 

unwashed milk bottle, half a loaf of bread, pipes and 
a tobacco jar, newspaper and string. 

The rise of the curtain reveals Henry standing at the 
easel, with palette and brushes, working on the can- 
vas, and Paul at the right end of the table, busily 
pounding his typewriter and puffing vigorously at his 
pipe. Henry wears a large, loose lounging robe, 
old trousers and carpet slippers. Paul has a shabby- 
genteel business suit; turndown soft collar and flow- 
ing black tie. He is shirt-sleeved, and his coat is 
thrown over the back of the chair. For about thirty 
seconds they work in silence. Then Henry stops 
work, steps back and surveys his painting with pride 
and satisfaction. Without taking his eyes from the 
canvas, he speaks. 

Henry. 
Say, Paul. 

Paul. 
(Not looking up from his work.) 
Huh? 

Henry. 
Did you ever see a sea? 

Paul. 
Did I ever see a what? 

Henry. 
See a sea. Stop. I shall make it so plain that even 
you can comprehend. Did you ever see an ocean? 
Don't answer. I can see that you have. You have 
been to Coney Island on two or possibly three occasions. 
But I mean a regular ocean. Did you ever, for instance, 
see a mahogany sea? 

Paul. 
Never. 



F I F T Y -FIFTY 11 

Henry. 

(Flourishes brush at canvas.) 
Well, behold; I have one here, old top. 

Paul. 
{Rises, goes to canvas and surveys it.) 

Well, 111 be . Say, what's the awful idea? 

(Laughs.) I don't get it, myself. 

Henry. 
Poverty, old boy. I used up all my deep seagoing 
blue a week ago. Today I stumbled on a can of ma- 
hogany furniture polish in the hallway and — Well, 
there you are. (Proudly flourishes brush.) A mahog- 
any sea! 

Paul. 
You'll never sell it. (Comes back to table.) 

Henry. 
Sell it.^ Say, Paul, I paint pictures. I am an art- 
ist — not a vulgar clerk. (Gases thoughtfully on can- 
vas.) But one can never tell! I might here have hit 
upon a new thought in art. Some critic may focus his 
carping eye on this canvas and pronounce it the discov- 
ery of the period. (Sighs.) But what's the use of 
talking real art to you.^ 

Paul. 
(Seated again.) 
You wrong me. I fully appreciate art, my boy, but 
not on an empty stomach. (He groans.) 

Henry. 
Forget it. Something's bound to turn up before long. 

Paul. 
Assuredly — but it'll be mostly landlady, tailor, laun- 
dry bill, et cetera. Now see here, I want to tell you 
something. In the future when you coax a bit of bash- 



^2 FIFTY-FIFTY 

ful currency to snuggle within your hand, don't let it 
turn your head. 

Hfnry. 
Hey? 

Paul. 
You know what I mean. Only the day before yes- 
terday when you rounded up twenty-five cents — by 
some devious method known only to yourself — you went 
out and bought bread and milk. (Picks up milk bottle.) 

Henry. 
Well, didn't I go fifty-fifty with you? 

Paul. 
But you knew very well when you squandered two 
bits on a non-essential, that we didn't have a cigarette 
in the place. Shame — everlasting shame be upon thy 
head, O Henry Brown! (Slams bottle on table.) 

Henrv. 

To hear you talk one would think you could live with- 
out eating. 

Paul. 
(Rising and crossing to Henry.) 

No, son. But there's the point. My Bohemian soul 
is more to me than my mortal appetite. It craves for 
exuberance, not for mere soggy semisustenance in the 
shape of bread and milk. When I eat, son, I want to 
sit at a table covered with the snowiest of linen; where 
the eye is greeted with real silver, cut glass and the 
rarest and thinnest of china, while the soft strains of 
enchanting music seem to smile a cheery welcome and 
the mellow light from the shaded candelabra sheds its 
rays upon the engraved menu, while an obsequious waiter 
stands ready with pad and pencil poised eager to antic- 
ipate my slightest wish. I want to — 



FIFTY-FIFTY 13 

Henry. 

(^Interrupting savagely.^ 
Cut it out ! You've spoiled ray whole day. 

Paul. 
Son, you may be an artist on canvas, but at table, 
you're a farmhand incarnate. 

Henry. 
Huh, I knew how to eat before you were born. 

Paul, 
Yes, I know, but they're not eating that way any 
more. {Lights pipe.) And I'm telling you something 
more. If ever I get one of my plays produced on Broad- 
way, I'll sure learn to call all those fancy dishes by 
their first names. {Resumes seat at table.) 

Henry. 

{Growlingly .) 
Well, talk won't get you anywhere. Get to work. 
Emulate yours truly. I was up at six o'clock this 
morning. 

Paul. 
Gee! I often wondered what it looked like at that 
hour in the morning. {Inspects sheet of paper in type- 
writer.) 

Henry. 
Do you mean to say that you were never up at that 
hour } 

Paul. 
{Without looking up.) 
Once — just once, and oh, the horrible sights I saw; 
icemen and people going to work! Ugh! {Shudders.) 

Henry. 

{After pause.) 
Nearly finished with that yarn? 



U FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
Uh-huh! Say, what goes with blonde hair? 

Henry. 
Rouged lips. 

Paul. 
No, no; I mean color of gown. I say here: "Lady 
Sylvia wore a tight-fitting riding habit that showed 
to advantage every line and curve of her beautiful 
figure." 

Henry. 
I should call that a bad habit. 

Paul. 

(^Leaning bach.) 

Huh! That's the best I could expect from the dis- 
coverer of a mahogany sea. How're things with the 
fair Sophie? 

Henry. 

Same old story. {Takes photograph from top of 
easel, gazes at it, sighs.) I can't convince her that a 
woman's place is in the home. She says she'll be famous 
before I will. And there's no use in arguing with a 
woman. (Places photograph back on easel.) That 
means I have a fine chance^ eh? But how about you? 
Ever think about the marriage thing? 

Paul. 
Frequently. 

Henry. 
What do you think of it? 

Paul. 
The more I think of it, the less I think of it. 
(There is a knock on the hall door. They start guilt- 
ily at the sound and gaze anxiously at each other.) 



Landlady ! 
Laundry ! 



FIFTY-FIFTY 15 

Henry. 
(^Guardedly.) 

Paul. 



Henry. 
Tailor bill! {They rise and look about, seeking a 
hiding place. The knock is repeated. They hide he- 
hind the screen and stoop so they cannot he seen as the 
hall door opens and — ) 

Sophie enters with a hulky envelope in her hand. 
As she comes in, the pals' heads rise cautiously to view. 
Sophie throws envelope on tahle and starts to go. 

Sophie. 

(^Going,^ 
Mail! 

Henry. 
Well, why didn't you say so.^ 

Sophie. 
{Laughing as she sees them.) 
One-two-three on Henry and Paul! What are you 
two hiding for.^ 

Paul. 
{Coming from hehind screen with Henry.) 
We were not hiding "for," my dear Sophie. We 
were hiding "from." {Picks up envelope, weighs it 
ruefully in his hand, then tosses it on table.) Back 
again, eh, old friend.^ Thumbs down once more on 
"The Primrose Path." 

Henry. 
Well.? 

Paul. 
Farewell, Broadway's bright lights ! {Dejectedly 
sinks into chair.) I shall behold them only from afar! 



16 FIFTY-FIFTY '__ 

Henry. 
Open said envelope. It may not be true. 

Paul. 
I have X-ray vision with packages like that. I can 
read it from here. But to oblige. {Going to table, he 
opens envelope and extracts large package of manuscript 
and a letter. He reads the letter aloud.) "Mr. Paul 
Green, et cetera, Dear Sir: Herewith is returned your 
play manuscript, 'The Primrose Path.' Regret that 
same is unavailable at present." 

Sophie. 
(Trying to he cheerful.) 
Oh, well; it might have been worse. 

Paul. 

Yes. It might have come back with postage due. 
That's one thing I have on Henry. My classic creations 
aren't three feet square, and they have a better chance 
to travel. 

Henry. 

Why don't you try keeping pigeons for a change? 
They travel cheaper, and they have the same habits as 
your plays and stories — they always come home. And 
you can cook a pigeon and make pot pie of it. 

Paul. 

(Returning the banter.) 
Oh, is that so.^ Sophie, did you ever see a mahogany 
sea.'' (Takes Henry's new painting off easel and hands 
it to her. She looks at it earnestly, and then bursts into 
laughter.) 

Henry. 
(Annoyed.) 
Well, what's wrong with it? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 17 

Sophie. 
{Laughing.^ 
Why — nothing. Only — what is it? {Carelessly 
places it hack on easel, unintentionally standing it up- 
side down.) -.-^ 

Henry. 

I suppose you think it's a comic cartoon! 

Sophie. 

Oh, no. A person can always tell what those things 

mean. _, 

Paul. 

Sophie, you are not in tune with the atmosphere of 

Bohemia, or your artistic soul would throb in response 

to the message of that canvas. 

Sophie. 
My soul is throbbing, all right. But what is it.'' 

Henry. 
Why, it's a sea. 

Paul. 
Of course; a mahogany sea. 

Sophie. 
(Standing off and inspecting canvas.) 
Oh, yes. I'm beginning to get the effect. It's rather 
stormy, isn't it.^ And I'm such a poor sailor. {Acts 

^'"'y-'^ Henrv. 

(Striding across to her, and glancing at picture.) 
Why, you've stood it upside down. 

Sophie. 
(^Innocently.) 
Oh, have I ? Well, that's the effect that it has on me. 

Paul. 
(Looks at Sophie, then at picture, and laughs.) 
Oh, I get the idea. 



18 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 
{Out of all patience.) 
Well, I don't. 

Sophie. 
(Placatingly.) 
Don't be an old bear, Henry dear. I can't help it 
sometimes, you're so easily teased. It's a wonderful pic- 
ture, and you're sure to sell it. Don't you think so, 
Paul? 

Paul. 
Eventually, of course — but why not now? There's 
the question we can't answer. 

Henry. 
Goodness knows we try hard enough, but nobody 
seems to be breaking their necks to corner our efforts. 
I know I paint a good picture. 

Paul. 
And I write good stuff. 

{Knock at hall door. They exchange startled glances.) 

Henry. 

{Guardedly.) 
See who it is. {Rises.) 

Paul. 

{Same tone.) 
See yourself. {Rises.) 

Henry. 

Not me. It isn't the postman this time. And to 
all others we are not at home. 

{Knock is repeated. The three cautiously tiptoe to 
screen and hide behind it. Knock is again repeated, 
slight pause and then — ) 

O'Malley and Mrs. Podge enter. Henry, Paul 



FIFTY-FIFTY 19 

and Sophie have been peeking over screen, hut now 
withdraw their heads. 

O'Malley. 
{After a searching glance about.) 
Huh! Nobody home. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Sourly.) 
Never are when I want to see 'em on business. 

O'Malley. 
{Mysteriously.) 
Whisper^ Mrs. Podge — do ye s'pose they're afther 
skippin' their rint? 

Mrs. Podge. 
If they'd done it a month ago I'd have been better 
off, O'MaUey. 

O'Malley. 
{Inspecting canvas.) 
And would jqz look at that now ! What it is I dunno. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Sarcastically.) 
Don't you recognize the work of our brilliant artist, 
Mr. Henry Brown .^ 

O'Malley. 
Sure artists make pictures — but what makes artists.^ 

Mrs. Podge. 
A natural distaste to work, I guess, O'Malley. 

O'Malley. 

{Shaking his head.) 
Such a waste of time an' good paint. An' to think 
of all the cellars that needs whitewashin'. {Clucks 
tongue disparagingly.) 



20 F IFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 

And me, like a fool, doing their laundry for the last 
five weeks without getting a cent for it — to say noth- 
ing of the rent. ^,,, 

^ O Malley. 

Now, Mrs. Podge, don't be afther callin' y'rself 
names. Ain't I been settin' up nights afther me janitor 
work was done, practicin' me ould tailorin' thrade on 
their Sunday-go-to-maytin' clothes? An' divil a cint 
does I git for me throuble. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Laying a slip of paper on table.) 
I'll leave them a reminder, as usual — though a lot 
of good it will do. I'll have them thrown out, O'Malley, 
that's what I'll do. I'll have them thrown out! 

O'Malley. 
(Picking up pencil and paper.) 
A good idee, and I'll lave a bill meself. {Writes 
awkwardly.) ^^^^ ^^^^^ 

{While O'Malley writes.) 
Well, their shirts and collars will stay right down- 
stairs in the laundry until they give me something bet- 
ter than excuses. ^,^, 

O Malley. 

(Still writing.) 
That's the stuff, Mrs. Podge ! And their foine mended 
and pressed coats an' pants will hang right in me locker 
be the furnace room till they make a noise loike pay- 
day. (Finishes writing and holds up slip of paper 
proudly.) "Six eighty-five plase remit if ye want y'r 
pants O'Malley the tailor." How's that, me lady.^ 

Mrs. Podge. 
You're wasting your time, and so am I. {Going to 
hall door.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 21 

O'Malley. 
{Going with her.) 
I'll just step along with yez, Mrs. Podge, so ye 
don't thrip on the stairs, loike. 

(He bows her out into the hall, follows her, closing 
the door behind him.) 

{The heads of Sophie, Henry and Paul appear above 
the screen; after a careful reconnoiter they come down 

center.) 

Henry. 

(Making sure the visitors have really departed.) 

The Irish scoundrel ! 

Paul. 

The landlady villain ! She'll keep our linen. 

Henry. 
The janitor's keeping our clothes. Oh, just wait till 
I lay my hands on him! (Paces angrily.) He roasted 
my picture, too. He called it, "What it is I dunno." 

Sophie. 
Take my advice and don't start anything with the 
name of Patrick O'Malley tied to it. 

Henry. 

There's only one thing that holds me back — 

Sophie. 
Yes, I know — Patrick O'Malley. 

Henry. 
(Stops pacing and faces Paul.) 
Well, what's to be done? We've one fifty-fifty suit of 
clothes between us and you have that on. As for linen — 

Paul. 

I have that on also. _.^ 

Henry. 

Money ? 



22 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
No, you wrong me. I'm not wearing any of that. 

Sophie. 

Inventory taken, let's get down to brass tacks. Who 

has an idea? _ 

Paul. 

I thought I had, but it came back. {Points to manu- 
script on table.) Wait. (Strikes palm of hand against 
forehead, thoughtful pose.) 

Henry. 
Aha, business of thinking. 

Paul. 
(Shrugging his shoulders.) 
Never mind waiting. ■ It was a false alarm. Son, 
we've got to negotiate a loan, or sleep in the park. 

Sophie. 
Fine. How much do you want? 

Henry. 
(Eagerly.) 
Do you know where we can get it ? 

Sophie. 
Surely. I'll lend it to you. 

Paul. 
You? Since when have you resigned from the pro- 
letariat? TT 

Henry. 

You lend money to us? The idea! 

Sophie. 
I told you I'd beat you to fame and fortune, Henry 
Brown, and I give you fair warning. I'm in the lead 
right now. (Grandly.) I have an engagement. (Pause.) 
Well, Henry, aren't you proud of your Sophie? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 23 

Henry. 

(Displeased.) 
To be very frank about it, I'm not. You know I 
don't like this idea of yours about a career. Dancing 
is all right in its way, but when it comes to making a 
profession of it, and performing in cabarets, and on the 
stage, and things, it isn't — well, it isn't — quite — er — 
(Struggles for word.) 

Sophie. 

(With wounded pride.) 

Respectable? Is that the word you're looking for? 

Henry. 

Why, no. Of course — I don't mean — 

(Paul, at the first storm warning, has gone back to 
the table and resumed his seat in front of his typewriter, 
where he pretends to be lost in thought over his writing.) 

Sophie. 
(To Henry.) 
Oh, I know what you mean, all right. You mean 
that it's all right for Henry Brown, because he's a 
man, to work for his art, but it isn't all right for Sophie 
Bland, because she happens to be a girl, to work for 
her art, and to — 

Henry. 
(Scoffingly.) 
Art! Do you mean to say that jumping and pranc- 
ing around to the tune of a ragtime band, in front of 
a crowd of cheap sensation seekers, is art? Not on your 
life! How many times must I tell you, Sophie, that a 
woman's place is in — 

Sophie. 
(W earily .) 
Yes, Henry dear, I know. A woman's place is in 
the home. But I am not a mere woman of the common 



24 FIFTY-FIFTY 

or garden variety. (Again in a teasing mood.) I, 
Henry dear^ am an artiste — a devotee at the shrine of 
terpsichore (performs two or three graceful steps, hum- 
ming the while) and Henry, dear Henry, I've landed 
a job! (Curtseys smilingly before him. Paul sudden- 
ly pounds the typewriter furiously.) Paul! Will you 
cut out that orchestra effect? You ought to know bet- 
ter than to try to imitate a jazz band without a saxo- 
phone. ^, 

Henry. 

(Surlily.) 
Where is it that you have this new job? 

Sophie. 
(Eagerly.) 
Oh, will you come and see me dance — and you, Paul? 

Paul. 

Surest thing you know. 

Henry. 

Not on your life ! 

Sophie. 

Well, anyway, I've drawn a week's salary on account. 

It isn't much, but I don't need it right now, and if it 

will help you, you're welcome to the whole seventy-five 

dollars. 

Henry. 

Seventy-five dollars? For one week? (She nods, 

pleased at his surprise.) There you go rubbing it in. 

It isn't enough that we have to grub along, year after 

year, without one word of recognition for real artistic 

effort, but you have to come along with this freak dancing 

stuff and show us what dubs we are. Rub it in, just 

like a woman ! _ 

Paul. 

Here, son, you seem to have forgotten that I do all 
the woman-hating for this partnership. You're sup- 
posed to be in love with the girl. 



J 



FIFTY-FIFTY 25 

Henry. 

{Defensively.) 
I do love her. But, confound it — she's stubborn ! 

Sophie. 
Well, all art aside, how much money do you need? 

Henry. 

{Tragically.) 
Me borrow money of you? The crowning insult of 
it all! 

Sophie. 
{Miffed, going to hall door.) 
Oh, very well, then. I wasn't asking a favor of you. 
{At door.) Go and sleep in the park, and see how 
you like it. {Quick exit.) 

(Henry stares sulkily at the door, and Paul looks 
at him in cynical amusement.) 

Paul. 
{Chuckling.) 
Charming girl, Sophie. Pretty; vivacious; talented; 
lovely. 

Henry. 
Think so? 

Paul. 
I know so. 

Henry. 
Look here. There's a limit to this fifty-fifty business. 

Paul. 
Right you are, old son. And I was just about to 
remark that though I appreciate the lady's vivacity, 
personality and charm, I'm glad you're the one who 
is cast to play the part of the jolly bridegroom. 

Henry. 
She's too headstrong. That's the trouble. 



26 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
Artistic temperament. 

Henry. 

Artistic fiddlesticks ! What excuse has she for an 
artistic temperament.^ 

Son, to us dancing may be the bunk. But to the 

public it's the goods. Sophie knocks 'em cold. The 

public says, "You're there/' and it's all to the merry. 

We may be there, too, but the public should worry if 

it can't see us. 

Henry. 

That's just the point. Here you are, a perfectly good 

writer; and I a perfectly good artist. And we can go 

and starve. Artists, both of us; and the world ignores 

us ! And yet she seeks to become a dancer — against 

my wishes. She takes lessons — against my wishes. She 

looks for a professional position — against my wishes. 

Paul, 
And she gets a position — against your wishes. And 
little Henry's dog-gone jealous. 

Henry. 

{Bitterly.) 
But she's so unreasonable. 

Paul. 

She's unreasonable.^ (Shrugs his shoulders and waves 
his arms.) Oh, I give it up! You're a jackass! 

Henry. 

(Realising the absurdity of his own conduct, and smiling 

sheepishly.) 

I don't know but what you're right. 

(There is an emphatic knocking at the hall door, and, 

before they can get under cover, the door opens and — ) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 27 

Mrs. Podge enters. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Don't be startled, Mr. Brown and Mr. Green. It's 
only me. I just thought I'd walk right in. 

, Henry. 

feo we observe. 

Mrs. Podge. 

I came about the rent. 

Paul. 
(^Cheerily. ^ 
Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Podge — certainly — have a 
seat. (Places chair for her down center.) Charming 
morning, isn't it? And how extremely well you are 
looking, Mrs. Podge. You're getting younger every day 
— isn't she, Henry .^^ 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Seated stolidly.) 
I came about the rent, Mr. Green. 

Paul. 

(Gaily.) 
Of course you did. 

Henry. 
Perfectly lovely of you. 

Paul. 
Saves us the trouble of taking it to you. Let me 
see. How much do we owe you, my dear Mrs. Podge .^ 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Stiffly.) 

Five weeks at five dollars the week, is twenty-five 

dollars. tt 

Henry. 

(^Admiringly.) 

So it is, so it is. My, how quick and accurate you 

are at figures. 



28 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 
Never mind my figure! What I want to know is, 
when do I get my twenty-five dollars? 

Paul. 
Very shortly, Mrs. Podge; very shortly. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Huh! I've heard them stories before. 

Paul. 
But there's one story you haven't heard before, Mrs. 
Podge, and this is the story that will bring you the 
twenty-five dollars — and ever so manj'^ more. (Picks up 
a loose manuscript from the table.) This is a wonderful 
story. Why, eight editors have already declared that 
they never before read anything like it. Listen: 
(Reads.) "It was a cold, dark, damp and dismal eve- 
ning. The street lights shone fitfully and were reflected 
on the wet and slippery pavements. It was on just 
such a night as this — " 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Interrupting.) 
I have my day's work to do, Mr. Green, and I don't 
see what a damp, dismal evening has to do with five 
weeks at five dollars a week. 

Paul. 
Of course. Pardon me. Where were we.** 

Mrs. Podge. 
Twenty-five dollars. 

Paul. 
Exactly. You're absolutely right to the penny. Now 
that we have that settled, allow me to thank you in 
behalf of Mr. Brown and myself for so kindly keeping 
track of our indebtedness. Also permit me, my dear 
Mrs. Podge. (Raises her gallantly from chair and 



FIFTY-FIFTY 29 

escorts her towards hall door.) So very, very good of 
you to call — you must surely come in again very soon. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{At door almost before she realizes what he is attempt- 
ing to do, and then she frees herself.) 
No, you don't! I came about the rent, and you ain't 
going to talk me out of it, either. (Step by step she 
drites him backward to the table.) Just because you're 
a slick talker ain't a-going to make me sign your rent 
receipt. No, siree ! Money talks today, Mr. Green, 

not vou. _._ 

Henry. 

But my dear Mrs. Podge — 

Mrs. Podge. 
Five weeks, twenty-five dollars. Settle! 

Paul. 
Now, Mrs. Podge, we're sorry, but we haven't it 
today. Perhaps tomorrow — 

Mrs. Podge. 
No, today. Today or out you go! (Mournfully.) 
Ah, this all comes of being alone in the world; every- 
body imposes on me. (Dabs eyes with handkerchief.) 
It's been this way ever since Mr. Podge went to sea. 

___ , . Paul. 

Went to see what.'^ 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Seats herself.) 

Mr. Podge was a sailor. He went to sea seven years 

come next Friday and he never came back. (Sniffs.) 

He was drowned dead. 

Henry. 

Ah, then, perhaps you can help me out. You are 

the wife of — the widow, I should say, — of a sailor. 



30 FIFTY-FIFTY 

You should be a connoisseur of things marine. Kindly 
look at this picture and tell me what you think of its 
coloring. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Surveys picture.^ 
Well! What is it? 

Henry. 
Sunset on the ocean. (Poses proudly.) 

Mrs. Podge. 

Looks more like a sample of furniture varnish. But 
I didn't come here to pass an opinion on your picture. 
I came about the rent. (He lifts a hand in protest.) 
And there's another thing, Mr. Brown. And I don't like 
to have to mention it, but you'd better realize that there 
ain't never been a breath of scandal about my lodging 
house. 

Henry. 

That's fine, Mrs. Podge. You are to be congratulated 
on having such a good class of lodgers. 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Eyeing him narrowly.) 
And I don't intend, Mr. Brown, that there should be 
any cause for comment now. 

Henry. 
A very commendable policy, Mrs. Podge; very com- 
mendable. 

Paul. 
Yes, Mrs. Podge. Financially we may be — er — 
weak. But morally we are impeccable. 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Darkly.) 
I ain't so sure about that. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 31 

Paul. 
(^Genuinely surprised.) 
Why, Mrs. Podge! 

Mrs. Podge. 
Well, I hope there ain't nothing to it. Only all I 
got to say is that there's altogether too much feminine 
callers going on in this studio, and that sort of thing 
don't go in my lodging house. 

Paul. 
Feminine callers? 

Henry. 
Surely you don't mean — Miss Bland .^ 

Mrs, Podge. 
{Primly.) 
Well, being a lady myself I ain't mentioning no 
names. 

Henry. 
But don't you understand? Sophie and I are en- 
gaged. And we — why — I can't see anything out of 
the way in that. 

Mrs. Podge. 
All I got to say is that where they ain't any chap- 
erons it don't go ! 

Paul. 
How about me? Don't I make a pretty classy chap- 
eron? No nonsense when I'm around, Mrs. Podge. 

Mrs. Podge. 
All I got to say is I can't permit it. Now if Mr. 
Green was a married man, it might be different, of 
course. 

Henry. 
{Eagerly.) 
It would be all right then? 



32 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 
Well, it would seem more — respectable, like. 

Henry. 
Paul, tell Mrs. Podge the secret chapter in your life. 

Paul. 

{Dumbfounded.) 
Huh.? Tell her what.? 

Henry. 

Explain to her that you are, in reality, a married 

man. {Vigorously motions Paul to agree, behind her 

back.) 

^ Paul. 

Me? Married.? Say, what the — 

Henry. 

{Interrupting.) 
Yes, of course. {More strenuous gestures, unobserved 
by Mrs. Podge.) It's all right for Sophie to visit the 
studio when she pleases, because she is properly chap- 
eroned. If you were not married, it would be rather — 
er — unconventional for us to entertain ladies here. But 
as it is, why — 

Paul. 
{Gradually getting wise.) 
Oh; I see. {To Mrs. Podge.) Yes, Mrs. Podge, 
I'm afraid it's only too true. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Suspiciously.) 
Then where is Mrs. Green? 

Paul. 
Who? 

Mrs. Podge. 
Where is your wife? 



F I F r Y - F I F T Y 33 

Paul. 

That's so. Come to think of it^, where is she? Henry, 
do you happen to know who — I mean where my wife is ? 

Henry. 
Let me see. The last I heard from her — heard of 
her, she was — er — in Milwaukee. 

Paul. 
Milwaukee. Thank you, Henry. (To Mrs. Podge.) 
Mj^ wife is in Milwaukee. 

Mrs. Podge. 
What's she doing in Milwaukee? 

Paul. 

(Floundering.) 
Well, now, that's a difficult question to answer ; a 
very difficult question. I think — I'm not positive, you 
understand, and I wouldn't want to state it as an abso- 
lute fact — but I rather imagine that she's — er — (tri- 
umphantly) having breakfast. 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Grunts cynically.) 
Hmph ! Why ain't she here ? 

Paul. 
Really, Mrs. Podge — your blunt manner of asking 
questions of a — er— personal nature is disconcerting. 
Really, it is, you know. 

Henry. 
You should explain to Mrs. Podge, Paul, that you and 
Mrs. Green are — that is — that you aren't living together, 

Mrs. Podge. 
Hmph! I can see that! 

Paul, 
Of course, Henry, Mrs. Podge can see that. 



34 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 
But what I want to know^ Mr. Green^ is why ain't you.' 

Paul. 
Why ain't I what? 

Mrs. Podge. 
Living together; you and your wife. 

Paul. 
Why she — I mean I — that is — To tell the truth, 
Mrs. Podge, it is — er — a very delicate subject. I never 
discuss it. Do I, Henry .^ 

Hexry. 
That's right, Mrs. Podge. He never discusses it. 

Paul. 
It is a very painful subject. I think I'd — {Desper- 
ately.) Henry, you tell Mrs. Podge. 

Henry. 
{Gives comedy start.) 
Me? Why should I tell her? 

Paul. 
Because I cant make up a — 

Hexry, 

{Breaking in.) 
Of course. That's it. He can't make up, Mrs. Podge. 
He's very temperamental. So is his wife. You see, it 
seems they had a little misunderstanding — over some 
trifle wasn't it, Paul? 

Paul. 
Oh, yes. A very trifling little trifle. 

Hexry. 
But he can't make up. And she can't make up. And 
so — there you are. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 35 

Mrs. Podge. 
HmphI I believe there's something back of all this. 
I don't know whether Mr. Green is the sort of person 
that I want — 

Henry. 
(Interrupting.^ 
Oh- nothing like that. Mrs. Podge. Nothing like 
that I It's perfectly all right. I assure you. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Well. I don't want nobody with no scandal bringing 
no bad name on my rooming house. I ve always had 
people with good recommendations. I hare, and I ain't 
never had nobody before with a wife in Milwaukee and 
live weeks behind in the rent, and I don't want to — 

Hexrt. 
That's just it. Mrs. Podge. Don't you seer Mr. 
Green's wife in Milwaukee is quite well off. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Hmph I Maybe that's why she stays in Milwaukee — 
because she knows she s well off. 

Hexry. 
You don't understand. Now if you only knew the 
original cause of this misunderstanding : I think you're 
really entitled to know. {To Paul.) Don't you, Paul.' 



Undoubtedly. 
Then tell her. 



Paui.. 

Hexry. 



Paex. 

{Taken aba^k.) 

Well, the truth :? — D-r you know, Mrs. Podg<^; it's 
verv difficult to ttll :r.T :r::hr 



36 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 
(With sarcasm.) 
I guess it is! 

Paul. 
I mean that there are some things which we can at- 
tempt in vain to put into words. Oh, if you only knew 
how I am suffering! Once I was happy — and look at me 
now! 

Mrs. Podge. 
I'm looking right at you, Mr. Green. 

Paul. 
I know it. And I can only appeal to you in dumb sup- 
plication, as a woman with a noble and understanding 
heart, not to throw us into the street without — 

Mrs. Podge. 
What are you talking about? 

Paul. 

(Desperately.) 
I don't know. Ask Henry. I don't know anything. 
(Shouts and waves arms.) I don't know anything! 
(Sinks desperately in big chair, elbows on knees and 
buries face in hands. ) I'm going mad! 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Somewhat alarmed, looks at Henry inquiringly.) 

Henry. 

(Shaking his head.) 
Poor fellow. He'll soon be ringing the doorbell of 
the nearest crazy bazaar. 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Rising.) 
What? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 37 



Henry. 

(With a sly look at Paul.) 
It's really pathetic. The squirrels follow him every- 
where. __ ^ 

Mrs. Fodc4E. 

{Frightened.) 
You mean — he's out of his head.'^ {Starts vigorously 
for hall door.) Let me out of here! 

Henry. 

{Restraining her.) 
Be calm, my dear Mrs. Podge. Be calm! {Gets her 
back into chair.) There's nothing we can do now. You 
are a poor defenseless woman, and I am a poor defense- 
less man — without any clothes. 

Mrs. Podge. 
I keep a respectable lodging house, I do, and I never 
had no such goings on before — never! I kind o' took 
pity on his hard luck, but I won't have a crazy man 
around another day. Not another day! {Tries to rise, 
and Henry pushes her back into chair.) 

Henry. 

It's all my fault, Mrs. Podge. I didn't think. He 

never gets these spells, unless someone mentions his wife. 

And then — he goes right off his nut. He can't stand it 

to hear his wife mentioned. You know he's a woman- 

Mrs. Podge. 
A woman-hater } And him a married man ! 

Henry. 

Sure. That's how he got that way. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Whispers to Henry.) 
What was it — that they quarreled about? 



38 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 
Oh, I couldn't tell you. 

Mrs. Podge. 
(^Rises, annoyed.^ 
Very well, Mr. Brown. Not that I'm curious about 
other folks' affairs, because I ain't. There ain't noth- 
ing of the gossip about me. But remember — {starts for 
door) twenty-five dollars — tomorrow — or out you go ! 

Henry. 

{As she reaches the door.) 
Wait! 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Turns with hand G7i doorknob.) 
I don't want no more excuses. Twenty-five — 

Henry. 
You wanted to know why they quarreled. I think you 
should know. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Comes back to him, her eyes glowing at the prospect of 
gossip.) 
Yes, Mr. Brown, I certainly should knov/. 

Henry. 
His wife is wealthy, immensely wealthy. Mr. Green 
was — er — financially embarrassed — temporarily, of 
course. She offered him some money. Mr. Green — high 
spirited and sensitive, you know — refused to accept it. 
One word led to another. And they — they separated. 
{Leans forward and speaks confidentially.) He has 
been speaking recently, of apologizing to her. It will be 
difficult for him, of course. He is so temperamental. But 
when he apologizes — when Mr. Green does apologize to 
his wife in Milwaukee — 



FIFTY-FIFTY 39 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Eagerly.) 
Yes } When he does — 

Henry. 
Your twenty-five dollars will be (snaps fingers airily) 
like that ! 

Mrs. Podge. 
I'll get my money .^ 

Henry. 
And your unfailing patience will not be overlooked. 
You will be well rewarded, 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Going to hall door.) 
Well, of course; I don't want to be too hard on you 
young men — 

Henry. 
{Subtly.) 
And our laundry ; dear Mrs. Podge. Don't you think^ — 
a shirt or two — ? 

Mrs. Podge. 
• {Turning for a moment as she opens the door.) 
We'll talk about that when Mr. Green apologizes to 
his wife in Milwaukee. {Exit.) 

{Throughout this scene Henry and Paul have been 
slyly having fun with each other behind Mrs. Podge^s 
back, Paul frequently raising his face from his hands 
unobserved by her, and showing his appreciation of 
Henry's inventive faculty. Paul now rises, stretches 
his arms upward, and yawns.) 

Henry. 

{Reaching up and grabbing Paul's hand, which he 
shakes.) 
Old pal, I congratulate you. 



40 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
Upon your wife in Milwaukee. 

Henry. 
Upon what? 

Paul. 

{Repeats handshaking business.) 
Son^ I congratulate you. 

Henry. 

Me? What for? 

Paul. 

As a fabricator of fiction, you have me faded forty 

ways. You're the best darn liar in the country. But 

what's the big idea? __. 

Henry. 

She insisted that Sophie be properly chaperoned. So 

I simply fixed it up for her. 

Paul. 
Yes, and you simply fixed it up for me. 

Henry. 
I fixed it up for both of us. Didn't you see how she 
wilted at that wealthy stuff? We don't have to sleep in 
the park — for a few days, anyway. 

Paul. 
That's right. But you haven't mentioned the really 
wonderful part of the whole performance. 

Henry. 

What was that? ^ 

Paul. 

You prevaricated yourself out of that infernal grouch. 

Why, you're quite human now. The trouble with you is, 

you're too upright. You don't lie enough. 

Henry. 
You're always cheerful. Don't you ever tell the truth? 



F I F T Y -F I F T Y 41 

Paul. 
Once in a while. But you know my motto — fifty-fifty. 
Just the same, there's such a thing as — 

(There is a knock at the door. They exchange startled 
glances, and the knock is repeated. They tiptoe to 
screen, in comedy manner, and hide behind it, peeking 
over the top.) 

Sophie. 
{Off stage, raps smartly on door.) 
Henry, are you home.^ (Henry comes from behind 
screen and starts for door.) We're coming in. 

Henry. 
(Aside.) 
"We're coming in !" (Sprints hack of screen, clutch- 
ing his robe around him.) 

Sophie opens the door and enters, then stands aside 
for Mrs. Hawley and May Dexter, who follow her in. 
All show surprise at finding the apartment unoccupied. 
May curiously inspects things. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
' (Breathing rather heavily.) 

You see, my dear^ he's not in. (Seats herself heavily 
at table.) 

Sophie. 
(Disappointedly.) 
Oh, dear. I wonder where he is. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
(With difficulty.) 
I'm completely out of breath. My, what a dreadful 
climb! (The pals gradually raise their heads above the 
screen and, unobserved, watch the guests.) 



42 FIFTY-FIFTY 

May. 

{Enraptured.) 
And this — this is an artist's studio! Isn't it won- 
derful. 

Sophie. 
{Proudly.) 
You should see Henry. (Henry grins and Paul 
gr'nnaces.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Yes^ we should, but we don't. 

May. 
This is my very lirst visit to an artist's studio. I had 
no idea they were like this. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
They're not, my dear. 

May. 

{Still looking around.) 
And is this where they paint those wonderful pictures ? 

Mrs. Hawley. 
No, dear — you're in the wrong studio. {The pals 
look blankly at each other; their heads slowly sink from 
view. ) 

May. 
Aunty, what's the matter? You are generally so in- 
terested in discovering new artists. {The pals' heads 
appear suddenly.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
{In blase tone.) 
Oh, I knew the moment we stepped inside there was 
nothing to be found here. I dare say any picture in 
the studio could be bought for a hundred dollars. (Paul 
claps hand to brow and looks at Henry. Henry waves 
his hand to catch Sophie's eye, but fails.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



Sophie. 
I'm sure that Henry will be here soon. He's been 
rather unfortunate lately. (Henry snaps his fingers at 
her, and both pals duck behind screen just as Sophie 
looks in their direction.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
May, don't snap your fingers. It's a sign of nervous- 
ness, and it is very ill-bred. 

May. 
I didn't snap my fingers. Aunty. (Sophie has been 
•watching screen, and sees Henry peek over the top. She 
laughs and motions him to come out. He shakes his head 
negatively, and disappears.) 

Sophie. 
Oh, that noise was probably nothing but the rats. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

Sophie. 
Of course. Isn't it quite usual for artists and authors 
to live in attics^ and have rats in their attic? {A fist is 
shaken at her over the top of the screen.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 

(Starts to rise.) 
This is hardly a place for us to stay if there are — 

May. 

(Restraining her.) 
Really, Aunty, it's too romantic. You aren't fright- 
ened, are you? 

Mrs. Hawley. 

To be frightened by rats and mice is neither refined 
nor dignified. I am not frightened. However, I am not 
altogether comfortable. I thought I might find a paint- 



44 FIFTY-FIFTY 

ing worth picking up, to add to my collection. It ap- 
pears that our visit is in vain. (Henry^s head bobs up 
and Paul is seen to pull him down again.) 

May. 
Why, you haven't even looked them over. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
It's all I can do to overlook them. 

May. 
{Who has gone to picture on easel and surveyed it from 
every angle.) 
This is simply exquisite. The coloring shows great 
technique; and the tone is so original. {The men peer 
over screen.) I do think cubist themes are the sweetest 
things! (Henry grimaces, Paul grins.) 

Sophie. 
{Glancing at Henry to let him know that she is teasing 
him.) 
Oh, my dear, that isn't a cubist theme. {Knowingly.) 
That's a bit of wild animal life— "Call of the Wild," I 
believe. Very appropriate title, too. (Paul grins ma- 
liciously. Henry motions frantically to Sophie to have- 
her reverse the picture, but her back is turned.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
{Picking up tailor and laundry bills from table.) 
My dear, you are quite right. Judging from these, 
I should say, "The Call of the Wild" has lately paid a 
visit here. {The men quickly lower their heads.) A 
bill from a tailor and another from a laundress. Also 
a bunch of pawn tickets. Scandalous ! 

Sophie. 
I don't consider it quite the proper thing to examine 
private papers belonging to another. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



Mrs. Hawley. 
I couldn't help seeing them. 

May. 
Oh, please do look at this picture, Aunty. It's really — 
well — I think it's remarkable. 

Sophie. 
Yes, Mrs. Hawley, it's Mr. Brown's latest. I don't 
know whether it's quite finished yet. {Again Henry 
motions to her, hut she responds with a teasing wave of 
the hand and turns away before he can convey his wish 
to have the picture turned rightside up.) I think you 
might find it interesting. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

(Bored.) 

Well, it can't possibly be anything, but since it is the 

young man's masterpiece, and I flatter myself that I 

know something about pictures, he may be pleased to 

know that I have looked at it. (Crossing toward easel.) 

May. 

(Looking at picture.) 
Don't you think it's just too — 

Sophie. 
(Who has preceded Mrs. Hawley to easel, is aghast 
to see the picture has been left wrong side up. She 
wrings her hands, and sees at last what Henry meant. 
But it is too late, for — ) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
(Goes leisurely to easel and critically examines the 
picture through her lorgnette, looks scornfully at first, 
then raises her eyebrows, and stoops forward as though 
to examine every detail, then steps back and views it in 
the large.) 



46 FIFTY-FIFTY . 

Well, really — upon my word — Miss Bland, this is — 
simply amazing. 

(Henry and Paul look pathetically at each other, and 
Sophie looks pleadingly at Henry as though begging 
forgiveness. Although addressing Sophie, Mrs. Hawley 
has not taken her eyes from the picture.) 

Sophie. 
{In distress.) 
Yes, it is ; amazing. Somehow I don't like it, myself, 
as well as I did at first. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
(Patronizingly.) 
That must be because you have a deficient apprecia- 
tion of symbolism in art. 

Sophie. 
(Quickly.) 
What do you mean.^* 

Mrs. Hawley. 
I mean that this picture is a masterpiece ! 

(Henry and Paul, who have been listening and watch- 
ing in misery, give a quick start and look at each other 
in amazement. Sophie sways for a moment, as though 
feeling faint.) ^^^ 

Sophie; what is the matter? 

Sophie. 
It's all right. May. I thought for a moment — that your 
Aunt wanted to buy it. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

(So interested in the picture that she does not notice the 

action of the others.) 

Buy it! Certainly I'm going to buy it. I intend to 

have that picture. Why, it's the beginning of a new 



F IFTY-FIFTY 47 

school. It is a wond'erfully original conception of art. 
That young man will become famous ! {Returning to 
her chair,) We'll wait for your artist friend to return, 
Miss Bland. I'm not going home without this picture. 
{Looks scornfully about her.) And to think of finding 
it in a barn like this. {Ya!wns.) 0\\, hum. Well, that 
is one of the joys of being an art collector. One never 
knows. (Settles herself comfortahly.) 

Sophie. 
{With a furtive look toward the screen.) 
I really think we'd better come again. I don't believe — 

Mrs. Hawley. 

{With finality.) 
When I go, young woman, that picture goes with me. 

Sophie. 

{Turning to May.) 

Really — it may be hours before they — Oh, we ought 

not to stay here. {Steals an uneasy glance toward 

screen.) 

^ May. 

Why, we're properly chaperoned. And you know I've 

never been in an artist's studio before. 

Sophie. 
But it won't do us any good to wait — I mean they've 
probably gone out for the day — and — {tries to think up 
an excuse to get them away.) 

May. 

No use, Sophie, dear. When Aunty decides to do a 
thing, she generally does it. (Mrs. Hawley is falling 
into a heavy doze. May has wandered to table and 
picked up Paul's story, and starts reading it.) What's 
this? One of Mr. — er — Green's stories.^ "It was a cold, 
dark, damp and dismal evening." (Paul is peering 



48 FIFTY-FIFTY 

proudly over the screen, smiling' with pride.) "The 
street lights shone fitfully and were reflected — " Hm; 
not so good. (Paul registers chagrin and sinks from 
view. May turns to the last page of the manuscript and 
starts reading to herself.) Hm, not so bad either. I'd 
like to meet this man. (Continues reading to herself.) 
(While May is reading, Sophie nervously watches 
screen for fear the pals will reveal their presence. Then 
Sophie joins May at table and they converse in pan- 
tomime. Paul cautiously steps from behind screen, 
with the intention of making door, unobserved.) 

Henry. 
(Fiercely aside, grabbing Paul.) 
Hold on. Where're you going? 

Paul. 

(Guardedly aside.) 

She's dying to meet me. I'll sneak out the door and 

then dash in. What? ^t 

Henry. 

(Angrily aside.) 

No, you won't. You take o& those clothes. I'll put 

them on and do the dashing. See? 

Paul. 

(Breaking Henry's hold.) 

Think you will? Watch me! (Grins.) You will 

give me a wife in Milwaukee, will you? (Cautiously 

crosses to hall door and hastily exits, leaving Henry a 

picture of comedy consternation.) 

Sophie. 
(To May.) 
And I'm positive you'll admire Mr. Green almost quite 
as much as you will Henry — Mr. Brown, I mean. 

May. 
From what you have told me, he must be charming. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 49 



Heavy footsteps approach the door, then Paul hursts 
into the room, recoiling in apparent astonishment as he 
beholds the women. He quickly recovers and advances 
to meet them. Henry views proceedings over top of 
screen, with varied emotions. 

Paul. 

Why, of all the delightful surprises — Miss Bland, by 
jove! {Extends hand.) 

Sophie. 

{Places hand in his.) 

You don't mind our intruding, do you? But (anxiously) 

where is Henrv? _ 

^ Paul. 

(Glances about in apparent astonishment.) 
Isn't he here? Why, I left him here just a few mo- 
ments ago. (He grins at Henry, who shakes a fist in 

return.) 

Sophie. 

Then he's probably stepped out. I — oh, I beg your 
pardon, I want you to meet Miss Dexter. She's been 
abroad for a long time and only returned yesterday. (In- 
troduction follows. Paul is highly elated, while Henry 
is furiously angry.) 

(To Sophie.) 
You don't need to apologize for your so-called in- 
trusion, but I must apologize for the condition of our 
studio this morning. (To May.) You see, unless one 
is accustomed to visiting a studio occasionally, they have 
a wrong impression of just what it is like. Genius, my 
dear Miss Dexter, is a most peculiar institution. It must 
have a certain atmosphere in which to thrive. At least, 
so Henry and I find it. We strive more for rude com- 
forts and true Bohemianism than for the enervating 
effects so often produced by surroundings of luxury. 
(Swells proudly.) 



50 FIFTY-FIFTY 

May. 

I understand. Oh, I think this is the most charming- 
place ! (Sophie nods approval and Henry grimaces.) 

Paul. 
For instance (points at picture), there's Henry's latest 
creation — "A Morning in the Country." Why, atmos- 
phere is fairly oozing from it. 

Sophie. 
{Surveying picture.) 
Hum! May thought she recognized in it one subject, 
I thought of another, and now you pronounce it some- 
thing else. T^ 

® Paul. 

(Confidentially.) 
Sh! That's the wonderful part of Henry's creations. 
Nobody can correctly catalogue them — not even Henry 
himself. (Grins at Henry, who shakes his fist.) 

Sophie. 
Poor Henry! I'm afraid he's working too hard. 
(Sighs.) I haven't seen very much of him of late. 

Paul. 
(Meaningly.) 
You haven't looked in the right place. (Quickly.) I 
mean to say he doesn't go out much lately. 

» Mrs. Hawley. 
(Straightens up and rubs hands across eyes.) 
Bless my soul! Have I been dozing? 

May. 

Yes, dear, and Mr. Green has just come in. Mr. Green, 

my Aunt, Mrs. Hawley. _ 
-^ Paul. 

(Cordially.) 

Charmed, I'm sure. (He takes her hand.) I must 



FIFTY-FIFTY 51 

really apologize for not being in a position to offer you a 
cup of chocolate and a biscuit. Our valet's day off^ you 
know. He's locked his pantry and taken the key with 

Mrs. Hawley. 

{Coming straight to the point.) 

Young man, did you paint that picture.'' {Points to 

easel.) ^ 

Paul. 

Why, no. That was my friend, Mr. Brown. {Casu- 
ally.) Pretty little thing, isn't it? 

Mrs. Hawley. 
When will Mr. Brown be here? 

Paul. 

{Glancing furtively toward screen.) 

It's hard to say when he'll get away from where he is 

now. ^. -.^ 

Mrs. Hawley. 

Young man, I want to buy that picture. (Henry 

peers eagerly over screen.) Have you the authority to 

sell it to me? (Henry nods violently to Paul.) 

Paul. 
Well, Mrs. Hawley, in a general way I am empowered 
by Mr. Brown to handle all his business affairs, no 

matter how painful, but (Henry's eager grin gives 

way to a worried look) I haven't heard him say that 
he wanted to sell the picture. 

„., . Sophie. 

What? 

(Henry frowns and nods his head violently. Paul 
signals to Sophie to shut up.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
{Taking check book and fountain pen from hand bag.) 
I've taken a fancy to the picture. Not that it 



52 FIFTY-FIFTY 

amounts to much^ of course, but I rather like it. May 
I write you a check for twenty dollars? 

Paul. 

What? {Pretends not to see Henry, who is nodding 

at him.) __ ..^ 

^ Mrs. Hawley. 

Twenty dollars? Or perhaps you would prefer the 

cash ? _, 

Paul. 

As an initial payment on the picture, Mrs. Hawley? 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Why — no. I — er — thought that Mr. — er — your 
friend might consider that a reasonable figure. 

Paul. 

(As though explaining something to a child.) 

My dear Mrs. Hawley, perhaps if Henry knew you 

fancied the thing, and you were to ask him for it, he 

would be delighted to present it to you as a gift. But 

as for twenty dollars — well — really (Shrugs hope- 



Mrs. Hawley. 
(^Apologetically.) 
I see. Well, what price do you think that Mr. Brown 
would consider — equitable? 

Paul. 
As I was about to say, I don't know about his want- 
ing to sell the picture. You see, he's taken quite a fancy 
to it himself. It's so — symbolic. People wonder what 
it means, and he won't tell them. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
That's why I want it. It's so unusual. 

May. 
It certainly is unusual. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 63 



Mrs. Hawley. 

I'm a woman of few words. An artist will sell any 

picture if he can get enough. What does Mr. Brown 

expect for it.'' _ 

Paul. 

If you knew what he really expected for it when he 

painted it^ Mrs. Hawley^ I am sure it would stagger 

you. j^ 

feOPHIE. 

I'm afraid it would. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Well, speak up^ young man. What is the price .^ 

Paul. 
I'm desperately sorry^ Mrs. Hawley, but 

{All this time Henry is trying in vain to flag Paul, 
and showing signs of going crazy.) 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Very well. I dare say it was only an idle whim, any- 
way. Come, young ladies, we'd better be 

Paul. 

(Frightened by his own bluff.) 
One moment, please, Mrs. Hawley. If Mr. Brown 
knew how much you really cared for the picture, per- 
haps he might be willing to let it go. Somewhere where 
it would get a kind home — I mean to say 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Now you're talking reasonably. At what jDrice? 

Paul. 
I don't think Mr. Brown could put a sordid com- 
mercial price on it. Intrinsically, of course, it is worth 
a small fortune. But shall we arrange this on a basis 
of sentiment? I remember way back when Henry was 
a struggling young artist, before he had achieved sue- 



54 F I F T Y - F I F T Y 

cess, that he said he would gladly sell his first canvas 
for five hundred dollars. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Five hundred dollars ! 

Paul. 
Think of it, madam; a paltry five hundred dollars. 
In comparison, this canvas is priceless. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

(Hesitating.) 
I hadn't thought that 

Paul. 
(Hastily.') 

Of course you hadn't thought ! Imagine getting a 
Brown — a genuine Henry Brown — for a mere song. 
Imagine, Mrs. Hawley, when that canvas hangs in the 
place of honor in your home, you will be the envy of art 
connoisseurs the nation over. They will flock to you 
from every side. They will beg, beseech and implore 
you to sell it. They will offer you fabulous sums for its 
possession. But no ! You are a true lover of art, and 
you will cherish this picture, and hand it down to your 
children as an heirloom and a sacred trust, because you 
got it direct from the artist's studio, and it came to you 
as a gift — almost. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

I hadn't known Is he as popular as all that? 

Paul. 
Popular? Mysterious and misunderstood, Mrs. 
Hawley. And popular? You'd be surprised. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
Odd that I never heard of him. (Looks at picture.) 
Why, it isn't even signed. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 55 

Paul. 
Isn't it? {Examines picture.) Oh, that's my mis- 
take. {Takes brush, touches it to palette and marks cor- 
ner of picture.) He paints 'em and I sign 'em. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
{Leaning over and looking.) 

How odd ! 

Paul. 

{Finger to lips.) 

S-h. That's part of the mystery! {Removes picture 

from easel and hands it to her with a flourish.) And 

you, Mrs. Hawley, are the first one to know who he 

really is! ^^ 

Mrs. Hawley. 

I'll take it with me. And I'll give you a check. {Sits 

at table and writes, tvhile Paul finds newspaper and bit 

of string and wraps the picture.) 

Paul. 
It's all yours, Mrs. Hawley. And I congratulate you 
on your artistic perspicacity. I hope Henry won't mind. 
He's so temperamental. And you have a bargain. No, 
not a bargain — a gift. Henry says I'm no business 
man. I've forgotten how many thousand he expected 
for that canvas. But {airily) no matter. He can do 
another one this afternoon. 

Mrs. Hawley. 

{Rising, handing him check and taking picture.) 

Thank you, Mr. Green; I can't begin to thank 

you 

Paul. 

Then don't try. It's a pleasure. I can't begin to tell 

you {eyeing check furtively) what your little visit has 

meant. Henry will be heartbroken to have missed you. 

I only hope he won't be too awfully angry at me for 

selling his picture. 



56 FIFTY-FIFTY 

{The three women have completed their preparations 
for leaving, and are now near the door, which Paul 

opens.) Mrs. Hawley. 

{As she goes out, holding the picture like a treasure, and 
giving him her free hand.) 
Good-bye, Mr. Green; it was so good of you. 

Paul. 

{Taking her hand and bowing low.) 
A pleasure, Mrs. Hawley. And I must have Henry 
meet you. It should mean a great deal to him. 

Mrs. Hawley. 
By all means. {Exit.) 

May. 

Good-bye, Mr. Green. {Extends hand.) 

Paul. 
{Takes her hand in both of his.) 
Good-bye, Miss Dexter. I trust I may see you soon 

*«"'"• May. 

{Smilingly.) 

Possibly. {Exit.) 

Paul. 

{As Sophie is about to follow them out, he seizes her 

warmly by the hand.) 

Come again when you've got more company. You're all 

right ! 

Sophie. 

{With mock formality, but laughing, and waving a fare- 
well toward the screen.) 
Good day, Mr. Green. {Exit.) 

Paul. 
{Calling out the door.) 
Look out for the third step, ladies. Good-bye. So 



FIFTY-FIFTY 57 

glad you called. Good-bye! (^The women call good-byes 
from off stage. Paul closes the door and leans limply 
against it. Henry has come out from behind screen. He 
appears somewhat dazed.) 

Henry. 

Five hundred dollars ! 

Paul. 
Five hundred smackers. Count 'em. Son, I guess we 
don't sleep in the park for a spell yet. 

Henry. 
And you sold it upside down ! I nearly had heart 
failure when I saw her going to it. 

Paul. 
Well, after she saw it she certainly went to it. {The 
light of inspiration dawns on his face.) Henry! Get 
busy with your old brushes. {Drags out a partly finished 
painting while talking, and sets it on easel.) YouVe 
going to do another masterpiece — and sell it ! 

Henry. 

The shock was too great for you on an empty 

stomach. „ 

Paul. 

I'm talking sense. You can do it. 

Henry. 
I can paint 'em. But how can I sell 'em? 

Paul. 

Upside down ! ..^ 

^ Henry. 

{As the great idea dawns on him.) 

Old pal, I think you've said something. What'll I 

paint ? Ti 

^ Paul, 

You might use a bottle of laundry bluing this time. 

and call it "A Sunset in the Alps." Get busy. 



58 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 

{With a fresh inspiration.) 

Get busy yourself. This is a fifty-fifty concern. 

Sauce for gander is sauce for the goose. {Strides to 

table and grabs Henry's story.) Look here. (Reads.) 

"It was a cold^ dark^ damp and dismal evening. The 

street lights shone fitfully and were reflected on the wet 

and slippery " Good night ! That's probably as 

far as the editor got. But listen here. (Turns to final 

page.) Here's your mushy finish. "As she gave her 

lips to him freely, gladly, he folded her in a long and 

tender embrace." ^ 

Paul. 

Well? „ 

Henry. 

Well.^ There's the beginning of your story right 

there. Is there a woman living who could read that far 

and then lay it down? Upside down, old kid! Get 

busy ! 

^ Paul. 

Suffering tomato cans ! Why not ? Wait a minute. A 

bird in the hand. Wait till I cash the check. (Takes it 

from table.) __ 

Henry. 

Let me see if it's real. 

Paul. 
(Looking at it.) 
Confound it, it's made out to you! 

Henry. 

(Taking it.) 
Well, why not? I painted the picture. (Looks affec- 
tionately at check and then absent-mindedly places it in 
side pocket of robe.) ^ 

But I sold it for you. You'd have grabbed her 
twenty dollars like a piker. I got five hundred. Well, 



FIFTY-FIFTY 59 

you've got to toddle out to the bank. It isn't your turn, 
but you can borrow the clothes. Now hurry. 

{They start preparing to make the exchange when 
there is an imperative rapping at the door, and they 
both scamper behind screen. During the next few 
speeches they are seen to be going through the motions 
of exchanging clothing. This can be registered by motion 
behind screen, raising and lowering of heads, etc.) 

Paul. 

{Calls over screen.) 

Don't come in if you're a lady ! 

Mrs. Podge opens the door and walks in, with fire in 

her eye. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Don't you worry. No more ladies won't come in 
here — not while I'm conscious ! 

Henry. 

(Calls over the screen.) 
What's the matter? 

Mrs. Podge. 

I hadn't hardly turned my back and they was three 

of 'em in here — three! ^ 

Paul. 

Mrs. Podge, you certainly are infallible at mathe- 
matics. ,, „ 

Mrs. Podge. 

This is the last of it! 

Henry. 
But you don't understand. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Darkly.) 
I hope I don't. I gave you till tomorrow, but I've 
changed my mind. Out you go, tliis very day ! 



60 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul, 
Wait a minute and let me say something. 

Mrs. Podge. 
I've let you say too much already! This is the last 
of it, do you hear? The last of it! 

Paul. 

Merciful providence, I hope not! This is just the 

first of it. TVT T^ 

Mrs. Podge. 

Well, of all the {She is amazed at his indiffer- 
ence.) T^ 

^ Paul. 

How much did you say our bill was, Mrs. Podge? 

Mrs. Podge. 
You know very well. Twenty-five dollars, not count- 
ins the washing. ^ 
^ ^ Paul. 

Make a note of it, Henry. Two tens and a five — 
not counting the washing. 

Henry 
And how much is the washing, Mrs. Podge? 

Mrs. Podge. 
You needn't try to string me no more. Out you go 
this very day. ^^^^^ 

Right. This very minute — or maybe two minutes. 

I'm dressing now. _, 

* Paul. 

(Conies from behind screen, wearing Henry's robe.) 

It's embarrassing to have to receive you in this 

informal attire, Mrs. Podge, especially when it's my 

day to wear Henry's clothes. But you'll overlook it, I 

know. (Calls toward screen.) Henry, this sort of 

thing won't do at all. We must have larger quarters; 

we really must, (To Mrs. Podge.) Mrs. Podge, you 



FIFTY-FIFTY 61_ 

may as well dust out the vacant room next door. {Point- 
ing to door up left.) It's small, but 'twill serve. But 
first please bring up our linen. I'd like to have a com- 
plete change after I freshen up with me tub. {He 
speaks in a very blase manner.) 

Mrs. Podge. 
What kind of nonsense is this.^ 

Paul. 
Nothing, Mrs. Podge, only the ladies to whom you so 
unreasonably objected were here to examine Mr. 
Brown's paintings. He sold them one, that's all. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Incredulously. ) 
Sold it? (Paul nods smilingly.) Sold a picture? 
(Paul nods.) Sold one of those there pictures that he 
paints? (Paul nods.) Well, will wonders never cease! 
{Suspiciously.) I don't believe it! Let me see the 
money. How much did he get? 

Henry. 
{Coming from behind screen, fully dressed.) 
A check for five hundred dollars, Mrs. Podge. That's 
all. Five hundred dollars. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Incredulously .) 
Let me see the check! 

Henry. 
{Hurrying toward door.) 
I'll do better than that, Mrs. Podge. I'll let you see 
the money. {Hasty exit into hall.) 

Mrs. Podge. 
{With pathetic earnestness.) 
Is it true, Mr. Green? Did he really sell the picture 
for five hundred dollars ? You aren't j okin', are you ? 



62 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
Letting Henry wear our fifty-fifty suit when it's my 
day to wear it? That wouldn't be a joke, Mrs. Podge. 
That would be a tragedy. 

Mrs. Podge. 
And he got the money? 

Paul. 

{Idly dropping his hand into the pocket of the robe.) 
Same thing. He got a check. He's on his way now 

to the bank to (Stops short as he draws the check 

from the pocket where Henry thrust it. Looks at it 
and rushes to door. Yells off through door.) Henry! 
Come back! You forgot the check! (Waits a moment 
and then returns.) No use. He's half way there by this 
time. He'll be back for it quick enough. There it is, 
Mrs. Podge. Look. "Pay to the order of Henry Brown 
five hundred dollars." And it's signed^ too. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Then I'll get paid for the five weeks after all ! 

Paul.^ 

You bet you will, old girl. And many more weeks to 
come. That is, if you want us to stay. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Oh, mistakes will happen, Mr. Green. And now I'll 
fetch your linen. And I'll make O'Malley bring your 
suits in a hurry. (Hustling to door.) Five hundred 
dollars ! And just to think this morning I was going 
to (Exit, talking to herself.) 

(Paul looks adoringly at the check, kisses it, returns 
it to his pocket and goes to easel, where he stands 
meditating over the possibilities of the next "master- 
piece.'*) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



63 



As Paul stands there, with his back toward the 
door, Sophie creeps softly into the room. As she is 
approaching on tiptoe the man in the lounging robe, 
whom she thinks to be Henry, Mrs. Podge comes in 
with a large basket of fresh laundry. Seeing Sophie, 
she stops in the doorway. Sophie creeps up to Paul 
to take him by surprise. 

Sophie. 
(Throwing her arms around him.) 
Dearest! Isn't it wonderful? 

Mrs. Podge. 
(Letting the basket fall, screams.) 
Mr. Green ! And you a married man ! 

Sophie. 
(Seeing her mistake.) 

Paul ! Why — I thought (She grows limp and 

falls in Paul's arms just as — ) 

(Henry rushes breathlessly in.) 



Henry. 

I forgot the check. I left it- 

tioji.) Sophie! Paul' 



(Seeing the situa- 



SOPHIE. 

Henry! I didn't know. (She breaks away from 
Paul.) 



Neither did I. 
Let me explain- 



Henry. 

(Bryly.) 

Paul. 



Mrs. Podge. 
Hmph! Married men can explain anything. (Goes 
to Sophie and faces her, pointing eloquently.) Out you 



go — you vampire; 



64 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Sophie. 

(Starts towurd Henry.) 

Henry, won't you listen to me? I (Henry faces 

her coldly, relentlessly, with proudly folded arms. She 

turns to Paul.) Paul, won't you explain to him 

how 

Paul. 

(Patting her tenderly on shoulder.') 
Temperament, child. You'd better run along. I'll 
handle him when he cools off. (Sophie, with a last 
pleading looJc at Henry, and with her clenched hand 
at her lips as though forcing back the tears, goes un- 
happily out of the door. Mrs. Podge goes out after her, 

and closes the door.) 

Henry. 

(Dramatically .) 

One of us must go ! 

Paul. 

(Cheerfully.) 

Well, you're dressed and I'm not. Here's the check. 

(Hands him the check.) And don't forget to put the 

money in your inside pocket — and button your coat. 

Henry. 
(Crumples the check into a ball and hurls it away.) 

Paul. 

(Retreiving the check and smoothing it out.) 

My, aren't you careless with our money. (Hands 

him the check again and speaks soothingly, as though 

to a spunky child.) Now toddle along to the bank, and 

when you come back I'll tell you all about how Sophie 

happened to 

Henry. 

(Putting the check carefully in his pocket, but speak- 
ing dramatically.) 
"Sophie !" Never mention that woman's name to me 



FIFTY-FIFTY 65 

again! (Strides gloomily to the door, makes sure he 
has the check and goes out.) 

Paul. 

(Looks after him a moment, then sits down at his 
typewriter and feeds a fresh sheet of paper into it. 
Looks smilingly toward the door and heaves a deep 
sigh.) 

Oh, gosh! Ain't love grand! (Turns to last page of 
old manuscript and glances at it, starts pounding his 
typewriter, and — ) 

The Curtain Falls. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



The Second Act. 

Scene: Morning, a week later. Same as The First Act, 

except with a few slight changes. The bed and screen 

have been removed. Milk bottles on the dresser now 

hold flowers of different kinds, and a few better 

pieces of furniture have been substituted for the most 

dilapidated ones. Two books are on the table, and 

the former litter has been tidied up. A new hat is on 

the bureau. The left door, leading to the sleeping 

room, is open, with the foot of the bed visible, and 

the right door, leading to the hall, is ajar. 

When the curtain rises, Henry and Paul are asleep in 

the bed in the sleeping room, the outline of their feet 

showing under the covers. Immediately after rise 

they snore loudly two or three times. 

Mrs. Podge, cautiously pushing further open the 

door from the hall, enters, and heavy footsteps are 

heard following her. She carries a breakfast tray, with 

toast, coffee and fruit attractively prepared. 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Calling softly back into hall.) 

Come right along up, Mr. O'Malley. (Hearing a 

loud snore from the sleeping room, she starts, then puts 

tray on table, crosses on tiptoes, gently closes bedroom 

door and returns to center, while — ) 

O'Malley enters from the hall, puffing loudly. He 
carries two cardboard suit boxes. He looks around in 
surprise at the improved appearance of the room. 

67 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



Mrs. Podge. 
{After closing sleeping room door.) 
The poor gentlemen are completely non-compus- 
mentus from the death of Mr. Green's wife. 

O'Malley. 

(Puts boxes on bureau.) 
Whew! (Mops forehead with handkerchief.) Faith, 
'tis a load f'r a auto truck! (Looks about.) But where 
are the fine young gentlemen? 

Mrs. Podge. 

Sh! (Indicates left door.) In there, fast asleep. 

What with the grief and excitement of it all, it's not 

to be wondered at. But what you got in them bundles, 

Mr. O'Malley? „,^^ 

O Malley. 

Sure, it's some new clothes for the gentlemen, that 

some tailor just sent up. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Well now, isn't that fine ! 

O'Malley. 

And thin I thought as how they'd be wantin' their 

things kind o' pressed up, like, so I just brung 'em up 

meself. ^^ ^ 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Shaking her head.) 

Poor fellow. And to think it happened just when 

their fortune turned for the better, too. 

O'Malley. 
Whisper. How did Mr. Green act when he got the 
news that his wife was dead? 

Mrs. Podge. 
I don't know. He started to tell me and then got 
high-sterics ; Mr. Brown had to finish it. It was all in 



FIFTY-FIFTY 69 

confidence. And I didn't tell nobody either, O'Malley. 
I ain't a gossip. You know I ain't. I didn't even tell 
you. All I told was some young fellow that came 
around asking about him, before I thought. And the 
next day it was in the papers. 

O'Malley. 
'Tis a strange world. Maybe they fought like cats 
an' dogs, I dunno. But to have it happen — so suddent 
an' all — well, peace to her ashes. 

Mrs. Podge. 
You have a kind heart, Mr. O'Malley. (Picks up 
boxes from bureau.) Just like Mr. Podge. (Goes to 
bedroom door.) Mr. Podge was surely a kind-hearted 
man. (Deposits boxes inside, nearly closes door and 
comes back to center.) 

O'Malley. 

(Significantly.) 
He was the same. He went away from you and never 
came back. No man could do more. 

Mrs. Podge. 
That's true. The gentlemen will have a pleasant 
surprise when they wake up and find all them clothes. 

O'Malley. 
(Surveying room.) 
'Tis fixed up ye are since last week, ma'am. Ye have 
new furniture, and flowers — where did all the flowers 
come from, Mrs. Podge? 

Mrs. Podge. 
They were sent by loving friends to express sym- 
pathy for Mr. Green's great loss. 

O'Malley. 
Faith, have the fine gentlemen taken another room? 



70 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 

Yes^ they now occupy a whole suite. Money has no 

limitations. ^,^^ 

O Malley. 

(^Glancing at tray.) 
And breakfast in bed^ just like the king himself. 
(Starts to go.) Well, good luck to ye. Give my regards 
to the fine young gentlemen. (Stops.) Oh, I just 
happened to think. (Slyly.) Me brother is an under- 
taker. Do ye mind speaking a word or two fer him to 
the fine young gentlemen? (Short pause.) He might 
as well bury her as any other man. He's been an un- 
dertaker many the year now and never a complaint 
from a single customer. (Start to go.) Good-day, Mrs. 
Podge. See ye later. (Turns.) And don't forget to 
mention me brother. (Goes out into the hall.) 

(Mrs. Podge fusses busily about the room for a mo- 
ment, arranging the flowers and ^'tidying up/' and then 
turns toward hall door with the intention of leaving, 
but stops as Henry and Paul begin speaking.) 

Henry. 
(Off left.) 
Say, Paul, that's my coat. 

Paul. 

(Off left.) 

Go way, son; how many coats do you want to wear 

at one time.^ 

Henry. 

(Off left.) 

All right, go ahead. It doesn't fit you anyhow and 

I hope the trousers choke you. 

• Mrs. Podge. 

(Calling.) 
Is everything all right, Mr. Brown.? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 71 

Henry. 

(Sticks head out of door.) 
Oh, hello ! Merry Christmas ! (Sees tray.) 

Mrs. Podge. 
This ain't Christmas. 

Henry. 
(At door.) 
No? Well, by golly, Santa Claus has been here. 
(Calls back.) Paul, you ought to see what I see on 

Paul. 
(Off left.) 

Henry. 



the table. 



What.f^ 
Breakfast. 



Attaboy 



Paul. 
(Off left.) 

Mrs. Podge. 

'Twas only me and Mr. O'Malley. How does he 
feel now after the terrible shock? 

Henry. 

(Withdrawing head.) 
Fine as silk, Mrs. Podge. 

Paul. 

(Off left.) 
But there's an awful edge on our appetites. Gee, but 
this fresh linen is a treat. If any more junk comes, 
flip it in, won't you, dearie? 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Kittenish.) 

Don't you call me dearie, you young scamp. (Going 

to hall door.) You think because you're a widower 

that you can act up — but you can't; not with me. 

(Ea^its to hall.) 



72 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul bounces from sleeping room. He is attired in 
neat gray business suit, with wide, black mourning rib- 
bon about left coat sleeve. 

Paul. 
Oh, is that so? Huh! She's gone. 

Henry enters from sleeping room. He also is pros- 
perously dressed. 

Henry. 

The old fire-eater gone? (Gives a final tug at tie.) 

Paul. 
Yes; fired a verbal centimeter and retreated. (Looks 
critically at Henry.) Say, you'll do. (Turns about 
for Henry^s inspection.) How's me? (Sits at table 
and starts to eat.) 

Henry. 

Very much to the mustard, if you ask. (Sits oppo- 
site and eats.) 

Paul. 

Well, we've started the ball rolling — and you see 
the results. (Waves a hand.) Flowers, new furnish- 
ings, large and airy sleeping apartment, new clothes, 

fresh linen and — 

Henry. 

(Sarcastically.) 
And a fine write-up in the newspapers about the 
death of the wife of the famous author and play- 
wright, Paul Green. How in thunder did that beautiful 

lie of yours leak out? 

^ Paul. 

I had to fix it up somehow with Mrs. Podge, didn't 

I, if I ever wanted to see May Dexter again? So I 

told her my wife was dead. 

Henry. 
She must have passed it along. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 73 

Paul. 
I swore her to secrecy. How did I know that she 
was going to — } {Cheerfully.) But what's the odds.^ 
Last week I was a nobody, and you were ditto. Now 
you're selling 'em as fast as you can paint 'em, and 
I'm booked for a piece of fiction next week in every 
Sunday supplement in town. Barnum was right. I 
tell you, son, the public Uhes to be humbugged. 

Henry. 
Yes, and a fine fakir I must look like to Sophie. 

Paul. 

{Soothingly.) 

Now, son, Sophie knows just why we made up tha.t 

stuff. We did it for her sake. Just try not to have 

any more hair-pulling contests with her, that's all. 

It's abo-ut all I could do to square you after the last 

one. 

Henry. 

I know it. I was a fool to be suspicious. But things 

did look bad. _, 

Paul. 

Cheer up. They look good now. If only th^at news- 
paper story doesn't — 

{He is interrupted by a smart rap on the hall door. 
The pals exchange startled glances, and stop eating.) 

Paul. 

{Guardedly.) 

Now what? 

Henry. 

{In a loud whisper.) 

The police ! They're after us for false pretenses. 

Paul. 
{Whispers.) 
Be brave. Ask the gentleman in. 



74 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 
Use your voice. I can't find mine. 

Paul. 
I will. {The rap is repeated.) I shall show you 
that I am a brave man. (His knees knock together and 
he calls in a very weak voice.) C-come in. (The 
rapping is repeated, and he speaks in a somewhat louder 
tone.) Come in. 

Sophie enters from the hall. She is dressed in the 
costume of a Spanish dancer. 

Sophie. 
(Gaily.) 
Why so mysterious? It looks like a dynamite plot. 

Paul. 
Ah, good morning, merry sunshine. I see we have a 
little model in our home. 

Sophie. 
(To Henry.) 
This is the last time I'm to pose, isn't it.'' And 
then the picture will be finished? 

Henry. 

(Going to easel.) 
Surprise. I finished it yesterday, after you had left. 
(Removes the stretcher and hands it to her.) 

Sophie. 

(Admiring it.) 

Isn't that a peach? (Shows it to Paul.) Look, 

Paul; portrait of Sophie Bland, the famous character 

dancer, by Henry Brown, the famous portrait painter. 

Paul. 
(Looks at it approvingly.) 
Humdinger. Son, you can paint real pictures when 



FIFTY-FIFTY 75 

you want to. But you don't want to very often. Well, 
the public likes trash. {Takes red flower from vase 
and places it jauntily in Sophie^s hair,) Pardon me 
while I shed a few remorseful tears. 

Sophie. 
What's the grand idea.^ 

Paul. 
A fragrant blossom from the grave of my late la- 
mented. _ 

hOPHIE. 

Are they still coming? 

Paul. 
Flowers in the hands of every delivery boy in town, 
and letters of sympathy by every mail. We share the 
flowers fifty-fifty, but I give the letters to Henry. 
Anybody that falls for this publicity bunk is a good 
prospect for one of his famous hand-painted what-is- 
its. And the business it is bringing him — you've no 
idea. {Waves toward table.) Have some breakfast. 

Sophie. 
{Laughing .) 
It's a frightfully good joke, the whole thing. I'd 
no idea you and Henry were so clever. {Picks up a 
slice of toast and nibbles at it.) 

Henry. 
Give Paul all the credit. We'll be lucky if we don't 
land in jail. p^^^ 

The grand initial hunch was yours, son. 

Henry. 

What do you mean.^ _^ 

^ Paul. 

My poor departed wife in Milwaukee — {mock sad- 



76 FIFTY-FIFTY 

ness) heaven rest her soul! {To Sophie.) But speak- 
ing of paradise, where's May — I mean Miss Dexter? 

Sophie. 
May Dexter.^ You seem to have been impressed. 

Henry. 

{Joyously.^ 
Paul Green, the woman hater! 

Paul. 

Oh, well, I have to celebrate some way. There's one 

bit of our sudden good luck that I've been- keeping to 

myself. _ 

Sophie. 

What's become of the fifty-fifty partnership .'' 

Paul. 
It's still good. I've just been holding this up my 
sleeve. You see I — that is — well, just as I was in the 
throes of grief over my crushing loss — darned if I didn't 
have a musical comedy accepted! 

Sophie. 

{At table.) 

Paul! Isn't that wonderful! Broadway at last! 

Henry. 
Old man — is that on the level? 

Paul. 
I am starting the day right, by way of a change, 
by telling the gospel truth. This last show at the Rose- 
bud Garden isn't panning out, and they're putting my 
show under rehearsal right away, as a pinch hitter. 

Sophie. 

{Drops the toast.) 

Where — where did you say they're putting it on? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 77 

Paul. 
At the Rosebud Garden. 

Sophie. 
{Stunned.) 

Oh! 

Henry. 

{Not noticing.) 

That's where the tired business man hangs out, isn't 

it? ^ 

Paul. 

You've said it. Nothing highbrow. Singing, dancing, 
novelty stuff — and a few jokes. All I do is write the 
dialogues and warm over the jokes. But — oh, boy — 
there's money in it. (To Sophie.) Where's May Dex- 
ter? I want to spend my advance royalties on a din- 
ner with her. „ 

Sophie. 

It's a funny thing about May. She hasn't been home 
since that day she was here with me. 

Paul. 
Abducted ! ^ 

SOPHIE. 

Nothing like that. You don't know May as I do, or 
you wouldn't worry. She's probably become a play- 
ground teacher or a movie actress or something. She's 
always plunging into new ideas. And the strange thing 
is that she always makes good at whatever she tries. 

Henry. 
That's odd. She didn't look like the adventurous 

*yp^- pacl. 

I doped her for a shrinking little violet. Cute little 
trick, though. I liked her, hanged if I didn't. 

Henry. 
(Dryly.) 
One can guess as much. 



78 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 

But then why did she pull all that ingenue stuff? 
She acted as if she'd never been out of her own back 

^ ' Sophie. 

Oh^ that was just for her aunt's benefit. Mrs. Haw- 
ley doesn't approve of modernism — in the young — and 
so May humors her. Her aunt almost went wild when 
darling little niece went to college. And she's been 
wild half of the time since. Believe me,, Paul, that girl 
is a handful. (Teasingly.) Better be careful, if you 
don't want a modern woman! 

Paul. 

(Emphatically.) 
I think more of her already. That's just what I do 
want. The man who thinks a wife is a creature whose 
one object in life is to bring his slippers and light his 
pipe, and see that his eggs are cooked exactly three 
minutes, is dead from the neck up. When I marry, I 
don't want a hand-trained hired girl. I want a good 
fellow — a pal — a regular playmate. Fifty-fifty. 

Henry. 
I suppose all this is a dig at me. Well, we aren't 
all built alike. I claim that there's just one place for 
a woman and — _ 

feOPHlE. 

(Cuts in and speaks mechanically, as though reciting.) 

And that place is in the home. Oh, I've heard all 

that before. _ 

Paul. 

See here. What are you kids doing? Trying to 

start another war? Henry, stop picking on her. 

Henry. 
I have a right to object to her livelihood now. I'm 
making a good living and can afford to marry. 



FIFTY 'FIFTY 79 

Paul. 

Right now you are. But wait till the dear fickle 

public gets time to think it over. You may find that 

pictures may come and pictures may go, but twinkling 

tootsies prance on forever. {To Sophie.) How goes 

the job, fair one.'* 

Sophie. 

{Striving to conceal her worry.) 

I — I don't know. Maybe the time will come when 

I'll have to listen to Henry on his own terms. 

Henry. 

Ah! Now you're showing good sense. 

Paul. 

{Annoyed.) 
Cut out that I-told-you-so croak. {To Sophie.) 
What's gone wrong, kid? 

Sophie. 
I don't know. Maybe nothing. But I just heard 
that — that our show was going to close. I hadn't heard 
of it before, and I'm rather — upset. {Bravely.) May- 
be it's just a rumor. 

Paul. 

What show is it you're dancing in, Sophie? Why 

won't you tell us? 

Sophie. 

Not until Henry changes his unreasonable attitude. 

Or when there's — nothing left — then I'll listen to him. 

{With sudden determination.) But, I'm not through 

yet! _ 

^ Paul. 

{Admiringly.) 

Attaboy ! 

Henry. 

{Pulling his hair.) 

3^he same thing, over and over again. I'm unreason- 



80 FIFTY-FIFTY 

able! I'm dictatorial! I'm — Why, to hear you peo- 
ple talk a person would think that I want to be a 
regular slave driver! You madden me, Sophie Bland. 
You deliberately madden me! And you, Paul! You 
tell me that I'm dead from the neck up. That I want 
to make a household drudge of — 

Paul. 

Oh, turn off the steam, turn off the steam ! You're 

boiling over. 

Henry. 

Ugh! {With a grunt of great disgust he gets a 

fresh canvas and places it on the easel.) Dancing! All 

you want to do is dance! 

Sophie. 
(Calmly.) 
You used to make me cry when you raved like that, 
Henry. But now you make me laugh. Dancing? Yes; 
I love it. And the people love it. What are we all 
trying to do, anyway, but amuse the public? You 
with your pictures, Paul with his stories and plays, I 
with my dancing? It's all pretty much the same thing, 
after all. Only we go at it in different ways — each of 
us through the medium that appeals to us, and for which 
we are fitted. The difference is that you are laughing 
at your public — the silly public that goes at its amuse^ 
ment so seriously — that buys freak pictures — 

Henry. 
Freak pictures? Mine? 

Sophie. 
(Deliberately.) 
Freak pictures, I said. You know they're freak pic- 
tures. You sell them upside down, don't you? Oh, 
whatever else you are, Henry, don't be a hypocrite 



FIFTY-FIFTY 8^ 

among your own friends. Your patrons buy your freak 
pictures because they happen to be a fad — a highbrow 
fad. They think it is the smart, fashionable, highbrow 
thing to do. They kid themselves that they are patrons 
of the arts. They pretend to find a beautiful, soulful 
symbolism in a daub that the health department wouldn't 
allow to be pasted on the city ash cans. A hypocrite, 
catering to hypocrites. That's your art. 

Henry. 

{Sulkily.) 
Well, we won't argue that. But you've talked so 
much about your art. What's your art, as you call it? 

Sophie. 
My art.'^ Why, entertainment — simple and uncamou- 
flaged. It is as though they came to me frankly and 
said, "We're tired. We wish to be entertained. Make 
us forget our sorrows and our troubles and all the labors 
of the workaday world." They ask for something frank- 
ly entertaining — something pretty; no more. And I try 
to give it to them; no less. Something pretty, Henry, 
like this picture here that you have made of me in my 
Spanish dancing costume. Nothing like — the stuff you 
are selling. Oh, Henry, why don't you paint pictures 

like this? 

Henry. 

{Scornfully.) 

That daub? That isn't art. That's lowbrow poster 

technique. Dub stuff. {Resumes painting.) 

Sophie. 
Then why did you paint it? 

Henry. 
{Without looking up.) 
To amuse you. 



82 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Sophie. 

{Bowing low.^ 

As an humble representative of the poor, miserable 

public, I thank you. 

Henry. 

(Sarcastically.) 

Well, have you finished your lecture on the virtues 

of the art of dancing versus the evils of the art of 

painting.? 

Sophie. 

Just about. You said I loved dancing, Henry. Well, 
I do. And what's more, I'm going to promise you one 
little thing. I'm going to make you love it, Henry. 
Before I get through I'm going to make you dance! 
(She delivers her last line emphatically — half seriously, 
half laughingly — and then runs out into the hall, clos- 
ing the door after her.) 

Paul. 

(Who has lighted a pipe and sat in the easy chair, 
listening philosophically and appreciatively.) 

Attaboy, Sophie! (Kiddingly.) Son, did you hear 

that? She's going to make you dance. And take it 

from your dear old uncle Paul, she's the girl that can 

do it. 

Henry. 

(Busily painting,) 

Rats ! 

Paul. 

And speaking of rats, Henry, when it comes to 

handling women you have a head like a piece of cheese. 

Henry. 

(Curtly.) 

That's my business. „ 

^ Paul. 

Your business? Then you're going to be a business 

failure. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 83 

Henry. 
Oh, cut it out. How much did you get for that Rose- 
bud Garden show? 

Paul. 

(Casually.) 
A few hundred, I forget. Just a small advance. I 
can't bother my head with trifles. 

Henry. 

(Dropping his brushes, and with a sudden brightness 

of manner.) 

Let's get Sophie and go out and have a big spread 

and celebrate. „ 

Paul. 

Get Sophie? You poor dub! Fat chance of her 

ever speaking to you again. 

Henry. 
Oh, I'll apologize. I always do. 

Paul. 
You bet you always do. But you'll do it some day, 
son, and find that it doesn't work. Let's wait till Sophie 
finds May. Then we can make it a foursome. (Going 
to table.) Anyway, I've work to do. (Putting sheet 
of paper in typewriter.) Don't interrupt me. I am 
about to fan the spark of genius. 

(Henry continues painting and Paul has hardly 
started pounding the typewriter when there is a knock 
at the hall door. They are both engrossed and do not 
hear it. After the knocking is twice repeated the door 
opens and — ) 

May enters. She wears a tailored suit that is busi- 
ness-like but none the less fetching. She has thrown 
off the ingenuousness of The First Act, and is now thor- 
oughly self-possessed. But her easy manner is too well' 



84 FIFTY-FIFTY 

bred ever to he mistaken for forwardness. She stands 
in the doorway a moment and then speaks. Her tone 
is thoroughly impersonal. 

May. 
I heard the typewriter, so I knew you were too busy 
to hear me, and I took the- libertj; of walking in. 

Paul. 
(Looking up and seeing her, is too dumbfounded to 

rise.) 
May! 

May. 

(Politely correcting him.) 
Miss Dexter. I have had the pleasure of meet- 
ing you, I believe. 

Paul. 

(Jumping up.) 
Gee, I'm sure glad to see you! Where in thunder 
have you been? We've all been worried sick. (Calls 
to Henry, who has risen and whom May has not noticed 
before.) Henry, come here. Miss Dexter, this is Henry 
Brown, my pal. Henry, Miss Dexter was with Mrs. 
Hawley when she discovered your painting. 

Henry. 

(Taking her hand.) 
Why, surely I remember Miss Dexter, of course^ I — 

May. 
You remember me? I don't understand. 

Paul. 

(Hastily.) 
What he means by that is that he has heard me 
speak of you so often that it doesn't seem to him like a 
first meeting. Just like old friends, you know. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 85 

Henry. 

We thought you were lost. Mr. Green was thinking 

of notifying the police. ^ 

Patjl. 

But then Sophie told us not to worry about you be- 
cause you were always getting crazy ideas — that is — 

I mean — 

May. 

(^Laughing heartily.^ 

Sophie was right. No one ever needs to worry about 

me. You see, I'm a business woman now; or is it a 

profession.'' I'm not sure which. Anyway, I'm on the 

staff of the Sunday "Press." 

Paul. 

You don't say so! Well, isn't that fine. Now that 

you've broken into the world of Bohemia, so to speak, 

I hope we can see a lot of each other. I have a fine 

idea ! 

Henry. 

(Half aside.) 

Another fine idea. _, 

Paul. 

We'll get Sophie, and the four of us will go out 

and have a little party somewhere — for luncheon. Or 

would you rather make it this evening? 

May. 
(In a reserved tone.) 
My call is not of a social nature, Mr. Green. And 
I'm sure you haven't stopped to think ho-w it would look. 

Paul. 

It couldn't help but look great to me, if you were 

there. , , 

May. 

(Quietly.) 

I know I have been very tardy in expressing my 

sympathy. 



86 FIFTY-FIFTY 

1 r Paul. 

Your sympathy? 

May. 

It was all such a — a surprise to me. You see, I 

didn't know — Sophie hadn't told me — 

Henry. 
(Aside to PaItl, who has forgotten all about his 

bereavement.) 
Milwaukee ! Milwaukee ! 

Paul. 

Huh.'' (Remembers.) Oh, yes; of course. Thank 

you very much. Miss Dexter, I appreciate your apology 

— I mean your sympathy. Very good of you to call, 

I am sure. And I hope this is but the first of many — 

May. 

(Distantly.) 
This is purely a business call, Mr. Green. 

Paul. 

Business? Oh, to be sure. You were telling us 

that you are on the Sunday staff of the "Press." It 

sure was fine of them to order that batch of stories 

from me. 

May. 

Wasn't it a blessing that the order came just at a 

time to take your mind off of your bereavement? 

Paul. 
My bereavement? Oh, yes; quite so. Now what 
about those stories, Miss Dexter? 

May. 
It is Mr. Brown whom I came to see. 

Henry. 

(Alarmed.) 
Me? Say, don't drag me into this thing! It was 
all Paul's idea. 



F I F T Y - F I F T Y 87 

(May looks at Henry in quick surprise.) 

Paul. 

(Quickly.) 

I apologize for him, Miss Dexter. He thought you 

said something else. Poor fellow, he is all broken up. 

May. 
(PuBsled.) 
Mr. Brown is? I don't understand. 

Paul. 
It was a great shock to him. I foresaw the end 
long ago, and was reconciled. But Henry — well, poor 
fellow— j^^y 

He knew her, too? Paul 

Indeed he did. Long before I did, in fact. Didn't 
you Henry? jjenry. 

Did I? P,^,. 

(To May, with a significant gesture.) 

You see how he is? Why, it was through Henry 
that I first heard of her. Wasn't it, Henry? 
Henry. 

Was it? May. 

Really! But it must be painful for you to discuss 
the subject— p^^^. 

Painful? It hurts to even think of it. Henry got 
me into the whole thing. Didn't you, Henry? 

May. 
I am sure you are not feeling quite yourself, Mr. 
Green, to discuss your domestic affairs with me. (To 
Henry.) My paper sent me, Mr. Brown, to interview 
you about that picture. 

. Henry. 

What picture? 



88 FIFTY-FIFTY 

May. 

The picture that was stolen. 

Henry. 

Stolen ? ^ 

Paul. 

{Trying to signal to Henry to bluff.) 

Ah, the stolen picture. That's what you came to 

see us about. 

May. 

{Mildly correcting him.) 

That's what I came to see Mr. Brown about. 

Henry. 
What picture? I didn't steal a picture. 

Paul. 

{Still trying to signal him.) 
I fear the secret is out, dear old pal. You may as 
well be frank about it. 

Henry. 
I don't know what you're talking about. 

May. 
Do you mean to deny, Mr. Brown, that one of your 
valuable paintings has mysteriously disappeared from 
your studio? We got a tip on it at the office, and 
the boss sent me here to get a story. 

Henry. 
I don't know what you — 

Paul. 

{Interrupting.) 
Henry, it is useless to struggle against fate. Some- 
how or other {significantly) these newspaper persons 
have been tipped off to the fact that one of your most 
priceless canvases has been stolen. And now I fear 
that the whole world will know of it. 



F I F T Y -F I F T Y 



Henry. 

Say, have you gone crazy? 

May. 
Is it possible that I — 

Paul. 

(Hastily.) 
He insists on sticking to it. But then — you know 
how artists are. Temperament — that sort of thing. 
(To Henry.) Really, old pal, this camouflage isn't 
going at all. We may as well tell the whole truth. 
(To May.) He didn't want it to become known, you 
see, because — because — well, because he shuns pub- 
licity. Don't you, Henry? 

(May looks at Henry, and Paul takes the oppor- 
tunity to signal violently to Henry to agree.) 

Henry. 

(Seeing him.) 
Why — er — yes, that's it. 

Paul. 
And the last thing in the world that he wanted to 
happen was to have the newspapers get hold of it. 
Wasn't it, Henry? 

(Same business as before.) 

Henry. 

(Still in the dark.) 
The last thing in the world. 

May. 
What's the idea of keeping it from the newspapers? 

Paul. 

Come to think of it, Henry, what was the idea of 
keeping it from the newspapers? 



90 F IF T Y -F I F T Y 

Henry. 

(Mechanically, and not thinhing.) 

That's it. Keeping it from the newspapers. 

(May looks in bewilderment, first at Henry and then 

at Paul.) 

Paul. 
(To May.) 
Don't pay any attention to him. It's the shock. Ter- 
rible loss, you know. ^^ 

May. 

(Meaningly.) 
He doesn't seem to stand the shock as well as — 
some other people. _ 

No. Poor fellow, he's sensitive; very sensitive. 

May. 

I'm very sorry that you have had this great loss, 

Mr. Brown. _._ 

Henry. 

(Misunderstanding.) 

Not me. Paul's the fellow that lost a wife. 

May. 
You don't understand. I mean your painting. 

Henry. 
What? Oh, of course. 

May. 

My mission is not only to get further details, but 
to verify the story that we ran this morning. 

Henry. 
What? Was it in the paper that I had a picture 
stolen ? 

(Paul, unobserved by May, shoxvs joy that the item 
has been published.) 



^ FIFTY-FIFTY 91 

May. 

Yes. I don't know how the tip came in, but they 
used it, and then couldn't trace the source of the story. 

Henry. 

Hm. That's strange. 

Paul. 

(Innocently.^ 

Darned strange. And Henry does so hate his name 

in the papers. But I suppose it's that way with all 

successful artists. ,_ 

May. 

But he shouldn't object to having it in the papers. 

Paul. 
(To Henry.) 
You shouldn't object to having it in the papers. Do 
you hear that, Henry? And doesn't it surprise you? 

Henry. 
I'm hearing a lot that surprises me. 

May. 
We can probably help to expose the crime. 

Paul. 

(Alarmed.) 

What crime? 

May. 

The theft of the picture. 

Paul. 

(Relieved.) 

May. 

As soon as the public knows that the picture has 
been stolen, everyone will be on the lookout for it. 

Henry. 
Why will they? 



92 FIFTY-FIFTY 

May. 
On account of its great value, for one thing. And 
then, of course, they'll be expecting a reward. 

Henry. 

Reward.^ I don't want any more pictures! I have 

more than I want now! _ 

Paul. 

{Trying to smooth it over, smiles apologetically .^ 

Isn't he odd ? Positively eccentric ! I never knew 

such another modest person in all my life. 

May. 
Now, what I want is a description of the picture, 
and some of the details as to how it — {She is inter- 
rupted by sharp rapping on the hall door.) 

Paul. 

(To May.) 

Excuse me. (Calls.) Come in. 

Mrs. Podge enters from the hall. She has three let-" 

ters in her hand. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Mr. Brown, they was three letters for you and I 
thought — (Sees May and frowns.) 

Henry. 
All that for me? In one mail? (Crosses to Mrs. 
Podge, eagerly takes the letters and opens them,) 

Paul. 

(Deferentially.) 
Mrs. Podge, this is Miss Dexter, of the Sunday 
"Press." Miss Dexter, Mrs. Podge, our — our — Well, 
she's just like a mother to us — so careful about who 
comes to see us, and everything. 

(While Mrs. Podge and May acknowledge the in- 
troduction, Henry is excitedly reading the letters.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 93 

Mrs. Podge. 
{To May.) 
They're so harum-scarum, you know, Miss Dexter. 
But they're nice boys — and smart — both of 'em. Seems 
like they're always getting their names in the paper. 
Well, I got to get back downstairs. No rest for the 
weary. Pleased to meet you. {Exit to hall.) 

May. 
{To Henry.) 
I was just about to ask you, Mr. Brown — Why, 
you seem disturbed. No bad news, I hope? 

Henry. 

{Shoving letters into his pocket.) 

No. I was just — surprised — that's all. You were 

about to ask me — 

May. 

Yes; about the picture. (Paul looJcs worried.) I 

would like to have a complete description of it, and 

the details — .-t 

Henry. 

I can't describe it. 

May. 

You can't? Why, what do you mean? 

Paul. 

You see. Miss Dexter, he's so upset over it, that — 
that — that he's all upset. 

Henry. 

{Pulling the letters from his pocket.) 
Everybody wants a description of the picture ! Listen 
to this. {Selects one of the letters and reads) : "Dear 
Mr. Brown: We note the mysterious disappearance of 
your valuable painting, and will be glad to put our 
most expert operatives on the case if you will furnish 
a description of same. We never fail. Blake Detective 
Agency." Here's another. {Reads): "Dear Friend: 



94 FIFTY-FIFTY 

I am a graduate of the Universal Correspondence School 

of Criminology, and would like for you to hire me to 

find the stolen picture. I understand all about clues, 

fingerprints and etcetera. Please remit ten dollars. 

P. S. — What disguise do you think I ought to wear?" 

And listen to this. {Reads third letter) : "Dear Mr. 

Brown: I have heard of the loss of your picture, and 

wish to offer you five -thousand dollars for it when it 

is found. You are — " (Stops reading.) No, I can't; 

I'm too modest. 

Paul. 

(Takes letter from him and continues reading.) 
"You are one of the most gifted painters of America, 
as this crime will testify, and I shall be proud to have 
one of your canvases in my gallery. Please let me 
know if this offer is satisfactory. What is the subject 
of the picture? Very truly yours, Hamilton Colburn." 
(Whistles.) Whew! Hamilton Colburn, the million- 
aire! Henry, old son, you're going up ! (Returns letter 

to Henry.) 

May. 

I hate to appear impatient, but I'm a busy woman, 

and I've lost a great deal of time. Mr. Brown, what 

was the title of the stolen picture? 

Henry. 

(Startled.) 

The title? 

Paul. 

Yes, Henry. The title. 

May. 
It had a title, didn't it? 

Henry. 
Let me see. The title was — it was — I don't think I 
got around to giving it a title, did I, Paul? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 95 

Paul. 
I believe that was one of the things you neglected. 
{To May.) He's so absentminded. 

May. 
Then what was the subject? 

Henry. 

Subject.^ ^ 

Paul. 

Surely, old fellow. Try to concentrate. It may 

not have had a title, but there must have been a subject 

Henry. 
I have to stop and think. The subject was — er — 

May. 

Are you sure, Mr. Brown, that a picture really has 
disappeared from this studio? 

Henry. 
It must be true. It's in the newspaper. I'm all 
mixed up. Paul, describe the picture to Miss Dexter. 

Paul. 

{Faking.) 
Me? How can I? I don't understand art. 

May. 

We must have some sort of a description, Mr. Brown. 

Paul. 

So you must. Well — it was Henry's favorite picture. 

Wasn't it, Henry? __ 

May. 

{More and more impatient.) 

I know. But a picture of what? 

Paul. 
Well, as I remember it, it had a lot of red paint. 
A terrific lot of red paint. Didn't it, Henry? 



96 F I F T Y - F I F T Y 

May. 
And what did the red paint represent? 

Paul. 
It represented — let me see — oh, I remember now, 
perfectly ! It was a joortrait ! 

May. 
A portrait. Now we're getting somewhere! And 
it was a portrait of whom? 

Paul. 
Ah, that's the point. I dare not tell you who ! 

May. 
You dare not? Why not? 

Paul. 

A sacred pledge to secrecy. That must never be 

known at any cost. 

Henry. 

Here; what are you talking about? 

Paul. 
I've talked about enough. But I dare tell you this 
much. Miss Dexter: It was a portrait of a woman. 

May. 

A woman; of course. If it's a mystery, it's always 

a woman. „ 

Paul. 

A beautiful woman, too. A wonderful woman. 

Cliarming; talented; and temperamental. 

May. 
That's the kind of a woman who goes with a mystery. 

Paul. 

And she represents a — a — what do you call it? — a 
Spanish cigarette girl, or Carmen, or something like 
that, and — 



F I F T Y - F I F T Y 97 

Henry. 
Here; that's enough! Do you know what you're 

^^y'"8- Paul. 

(With mock caution.) 

Have I said too much, Miss Dexter? Have I been 

indiscreet? __ 

May. 

(Laughing in amusement, in spite of her annoyance 

at his peculiar conduct.) 

T don't think you have said enough to incriminate 

vourself. ^ 

Paul. 

I hope not. ... 

MAY, 

If that is all you are willing to reveal, I had best be 
going. By the way, Mr. Green, there's a rumor going 
about that a show of yours is soon to be produced. 

Paul. 
Well, yes, they say they are going to use "The Prim- 
rose Path" at the Rosebud Garden. 

May. 

How splendid ! I want to congratulate you. You 

must be very happy. ^ 

^ ^^^ Paul. 

Happy is right. But tliat isn't what makes me 

happiest. 

' ^ May. 

Has something happened that is even better tlian 

"^^'■' Pa... 

Yes. I've found you. 

May. 

Mr. Green! _. 

Henry. 

(In mock amazement.) 

Why, Paul, I'm surprised! 



98 FIFTY-FIFTY 



Paul. 

Good Lord! I forgot. 

May. 
{To Henry.) 
There's just one other question, Mr. Brown, if you 
don't mind. I — 

{Again she is interrupted by knocking at the hall door.) 

Henry. 

(Welcoming the interruption.) 
Come in! 

(Mrs. Podge enters from the hall.) 

Mrs. Podge. 
Goodness me, Mr. Brown, this seems to be your 
busy day. They's a man downstairs with a bundle. I 
wouldn't leave him come up. 

Henry. 
Why not? 

Mrs. Podge. 

He said it was a picture. I said we had more 'n 
enough pictures and artists and things in the place 

already. 

Paul. 
A man with a picture? What kind of a picture? 

Mrs. Podge. 
He said it was the lost picture — whatever he was 

talking about. 

Henry. 
(Bewildered.) 
Tell him I'll be right down, Mrs. Podge. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Yes, Mr. Brown. (Starts to go.) 



F I F T Y 'F I F T Y 99 

Paul. 

{Hastily.) 
Tell him we*ll be right down, Mrs. Podge. (Starts 
for door.) And we'll beat you to it. Come on, Henry. 
{Grabs Henry's arm and hurries with him into hall.) 

May. 

(To Mrs. Podge, who has started to follow them out.) 

Oh, Mrs. Podge. One moment, if you don't mind. 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Turning back.) 

Yes'm? 

May. 

What do you know about the stolen painting .J* 

Mrs. Podge. 

(In dismay.) 
Stolen? Good Lord! Have them two crazy wild 
men took up burglary? (Emphatically.) I'll have 'em 
out this very day! I've put up with them too long al- 
ready, the young scamps ! Stealing, is it ? I'll — 

May. 

(Quieting her with difficulty.) 
You misunderstood me. One of Mr. Brown's paint- 
ings has disappeared. It was a picture of a Spanish 
dancer. Did you ever see it? 

Mrs. Podge. 
Yes'm. That's his newest one. I seen it here yes- 
terday. (Goes to easel and stares at it blankly.) Why 
— it's gone! Now don't that beat all? (Excitedly.) 
I keep a respectable lodging house, I do, and they ain't 
been a breath of scandal about my — 

May. 

So much for that. There is such a picture. I was 
beginning to have my doubts. Now, another question. 



100 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Mrs. Podge. 

Yes'm.^ 

May. 

When and where was Mrs. Green's funeral? 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Blankly .^ 
Funeral? I dunno^ ma'am. 

May. 
Didn't Mr. Green go away? 

Mrs. Podge. 

No, ma'am. He's been poundin' that there machine 

every blessed minute. 

^ May. 

Mrs. Podge, do you know the name of Mr. Green's 

wife ? 

Mrs. Podge. 

No, ma'am. Only just Mrs. Paul Green, I suppose. 

May. 
Don't know anything about her? 

Mrs. Podge. 
No, ma'am. {Worrying again.) Oh, dear me, ma'am, 
you ain't got no more scandal about them two young 
harum-scarums, have you? 

May. 
I don't know. All I know is that we have made a 
thorough investigation in Milwaukee to learn the de- 
tails of the death of the wife of Paul Green, the famous 
author and playwright. And not only do we fail to find 
any such record, but we find that no Mrs. Paul Green 
has died there for the last two months back. 

Mrs. Podge. 
{Ominously and confidentially.) 
There's something queer about all this, ma*am. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 101 

There's something queer going on in this house ! {Ex- 
citedly.) And me that runs a respectable lodging house 
and ain't never had as much as a breath of scandal — 

May. 
I'd like to talk to you further, Mrs. Podge. 

Mrs. Podge. 

{Brightening at the prospect of gossip.) 

Yes'm.^ 

May. 

This is hardly the proper place. Can we go below 

stairs, somewhere? 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Eagerly leading her out to hall.) 

Yes'm, we'll go right downstairs and I'll make you a 

cup of tea, and — 

(Mrs. Podge and May exit into hall, talking.) 

May. 

(Off stage.) 
Oh, I have no time for a cup of tea. Just a ques- 
tion or two — 

Mrs. Podge. 

(Off stage.) 
Well, I'll tell you everything I know — 

(Their voices die away.) 

After a moment Henry and Paul enter from the hall. 
Henry is talking as they enter. 

Henry. 
I don't see what you wanted to start anything like 
that for, anyway. 

(Closing the door.) 
Now, son, just leave that to me. We've started the 
ball rolling, haven't we? 



102 FIFTY-FIFT Y 

Henry. 

Yes, but it's likely to hit something before we can 

stop it. 

Paul. 

What are you beefing about, old Henry W. Gloom? 

Look around you. {Waves a hand.) Why, old Lady 

Prosperity is camping right at our doorstep. 

Henry. 

But what's the big idea of this fairy story about a 

stolen picture.^ 

Paul. 

What was the big idea of that fairy story about my 
wife } 

Henry. 

Well, why did you make her die? 

Paul. 
Why did you make her live? 

Henry. 

Getting into the newspapers was the worst of it. 

Paul. 
That was the best of it. It made me famous, didn't 

Henry. 
That's what you call publicity, I suppose. 

Paul. 

Exactly; the sort of thing that press agents get paid 

for. Isn't that what put me on my feet? Haven't I 

got more orders for stories than I can write in six 

months ? 

Henry. 

Well— 

Paul. 

(Insistently.) 

Haven't I? Don't argue. You know I'm right. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 103 

Henry. 

(WeaMy.) 
But what about the stolen — 

Paul. 
Didn't you tell a lie that made me famous? Don't 
we go everything fifty-fifty? Well, then! Didn't I 
have to tell a lie that would make you famous ? 

Henry. 
But you've started an awful — 

Paul. 
Isn't it making you famous right now? Look at 
those letters. Look at that man that just came — (A 
knock is heard on the hall door.) Come in. 

Mrs. Podge enters from the hall. 

Mrs. Podge. 
Mr. Brown, there's another man downstairs with an- 
other big bundle, and he says — 

Paul. 

(Airily dismissing her.) 
Tell him to wait. 

(Exit Mrs. Podge.) 

Henry. 
Now look at what you've — 

Paul. 
Yes, look at what I've done. I've put you on the 
map, Henry W. Brown, that's what I've done. 

Henry. 
It's bad business. They'll get wise, and then where 
will we be? We've got to kill that crazy report, some- 
how. 



104 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 

Too late. We've burned our bridges behind us. 

Henry. 
But how will it come out? We've got to fix it so 
that the picture is found, somehow. 

Paul. 
Confound it, dont cross that bridge till we come to it. 

Henry. 

{Glumly.) 
We haven't any bridge to cross. We've burned 'em 
all. (Short pause. Paul is beginning to be a bit wor- 
ried himself.) Something tells me we're going to trip 
up, the first thing we know. 

(There is sharp rapping at the hall door.) 

Paul. 
Who do you suppose that is? Sounded like a man's 
knock. 

Henry. 
I can see his brass buttons from here. 

Paul. 
Go on; it's your turn to open the door. 

Henry. 

(Goes part way, hesitatingly turns and faces Paul.) 
I can hear myself saying, "Good morning, judge — 
not guilty." (Goes up to door, is about to open it, 
then turns again, with hand on doorknob.) Say, what's 
the sentence for obtaining money under false pretense? 
(Opens door and — ) 

O'Malley stands in the door with a special delivery 
letter. 



FIFTY-FIFTY \0l 



Henry. 

(With embarrassed laugh of relief,) 
Oh, it's you, is it, O'Malley? 

O'Malley. 
Yis, sor. Who was yez afther expectin* — the Sec- 
retary of State? (Or mention some celebrity, local or 
otherwise.) 

Henry. 

Not exactly. Where's Mrs. Podge? 

O'Malley. 

Havin' the toime of her young life. Whisper. She's 

intertainin' a gang of art collectors in the front parlor. 

(Paul and Henry exchange glances.) It's a special 

delivery for you, Mr. Brown, sor. {Hands envelope to 

Henry.) Maybe it's the missin' portrayt inside, I 

dunno. {Laughing at his own joke, he exits, leaving 

hall door open.) _ 

^ ^ Paul. 

A special delivery? The plot is getting thicker. 

Henry. 
A thick plot is what I'd expect from a head like yours. 

Paul. 
I draw the line at puns. What's it all about? {In- 
dicating letter.) 

Henry. 

Wait'll I have a look. {Opens letter, check drops 
out. They gaze on it dumbfounded, recover and pounce 
on it simultaneously.) 

{First to grasp it, scans figures, drops limply into 

chair. The check falls from his trembling hands.) 

Merciful codfish! 

Henry. 

{Quickly swoops and picks up check, reads figures, 

gasps and leans against table for support.) 



106 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Five hundred dollars ! (Stares at check in outstretched 

hand.) „ 

^ Paul. 

(Straightening up.) 

It's a mistake or else we didn't hear the alarm clock. 

Henry. 

(Reads aloud.) 

"Payable to Henry Brown, $500.00." (Gleefully.) 

It's mine — all mine. Five hundred dollars ! (Dances 

madly about the room.) Come on! (Grabs hat from 

bureau.) ^ 

^ Paul. 

Where? 

Henry. 

I'm going to lead you to a place where we "sit at 
a table covered with the snowiest of linen; where the 
eye is greeted with real silver, cut glass and the rarest 
and thinnest of china, while the soft strains of enchant- 
ing music seem to smile a cheery welcome, and the 
mellow light from the candelabra sheds its rays upon 
the engraved menu, while an obsequious waiter stands 
ready with pad and pencil poised eager to anticipate 

Paul. 

{Who meanwhile has picked up the letter and read 

it, suddenly interrupts.) 
Here; lay off that pipe dream. You haven't read 
the little billet doux yet. (Offers it to him.) 

Henry. 

(Tragically.) 
I might have known there was a trick in it some- 
where. (Refuses letter.) No, you read it to me. 

Paul. 
I haven't got the heart. 

Henry. 

I haven't got the nerve. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 107 

Paul. 
All right, listen. (Reads.) "My dear Mr. Brown: 
"I have learned of your fame as an artist, and wish 
to have my portrait painted. I enclose check for $500 
as a retainer. I want the best, regardless of expense. 
I will call tomorrow for the first sitting. Yours very 
truly, Roxanna Wheatpit." 

Henry. 
That's all right. Just some nouveau riche, I suppose. 

Paul. 
Wait a minute. There's a P. S. Listen. (Reads): 
"1 am particularly eager to tneet you and your friend, 
Mr. Paul Green, as I was a devoted friend of his poor 
wife, and was with her at the end." 

(Henry and Paul look blankly at each other for a 
moment, and then — ) 

(May's voice is heard in the hall.) 

May. 

(Off stage.) 

Never mind climbing all these stairs, Mrs. Podge. I 

know the way. _, 

*^ Paul. 

It's May ! What do you suppose she's coming back 

Henry. 

(Fervently.) 
I'd give a million dollars to be out of this! 

Paul. 
Nonsense. Don't get hot-headed. 

Henry. 
I'm not hot-headed. I'm cold-footed. 

Paul. 
Just leave everything to me. 



108 FIFTY-FIFTY 

May appears at the doorway. 

May. 

May I come in? ^ 

Paul. 

Well, Miss Dexter. This is a surprise! Please do 

come in. {Arranges a chair for her.) 

May. 

I can't stop. My call must be brief. It is very 

serious. 

Paul. 

Serious ? 

May. 

Quite serious. Are you prepared for a shock? 

Paul. 
{Desperately.) 
We're prepared for anything! 

May. 
I've just had startling news. (Takes telegram from 
pocket.) A telegram from Milwaukee. 

Paul. 

Milwaukee ! Henry. 

(Despondently.) 

I knew it! 

May. 

(Reads.) 
"At last located Mrs. Paul Green, this city, alive 
and well. No such death here. Husband evidently mis- 
informed. Mrs. Green declares husband missing last 
two years. Is leaving for New York, will arrive to- 
morrow." (Paul staggers.) Quick, Mr. Brown, catch 
him ! He's going to faint ! 

Henry. 

(Indifferently .) 
He won't faint. There's no whisky in the house. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 109 

May. 

That's all. We just got word at the office. Goodbye. 
{She has been eyeing both pals narrowly all during 
this scene. With a courteous nod, she goes out.) 

Henry. 
(^After a dazed moment.) 
It can't be true. There's no such person. 

Paul. 

I know it. But she's on her way here. What'll we 

do. Think! Quick! ^^ 

Henry. 

I can't. My thinker won't work. (Paul, with a 

sudden idea, dashes into the sleeping room.) 

Henry. 

(Calls after him.) 

Paul! _ 

Paul. 

(Off stage.) 

What? (Dashes back on with two suitcases, runs to 

bureau, drops suitcases and opens bureau drawers.) 

Henry. 

(In terror-stricken tones, during above business.) 
She — she'll be here tomorrow ! 

Paul. 
(Starting to pack.) 
Well — maybe she will. But we won't! 

(They both remove clothing from bureau in utmost 
haste, and chuck it into the suitcases, as — ) 

The Curtain Falls Quickly. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 



The Third Act. 

Scene: A month later. The living room of a bungalow 
in the Adirondack Mountains. The room is hand- 
some and beautifully furnished, with everything in 
perfect harmony. An archway in the center shows 
a vestibule in the rear that leads off to the right. 
There is a door up left, leading to the pals' work 
room, and another door, right, leading to the dining 
room and the back of the house. Near left door is a 
large Japanese folding screen. In the center of the 
room is a library table, with inkstand, rvriting ma- 
terials, paper weight; also a telephone. An easel 
holding a canvas is down left of center. In the right 
wall, near the front, is a fireplace with an easy chair 
before it. A fire glows in the grate, for although 
it is summer, the mountain air is chilly. It is mid- 
afternoon and the stage is well lighted throughout the 
act. 

As the curtain rises, an electric bell is ringing off left. 
It rings violently several times, then — 

Smudge enters from the right. He carries a tray on 
which are two tall, empty glasses, a square bottle of 
cold tea and a syphon of seltzer. 

Smudge. 
(As he crosses toward the left door.) 
Yes, sah; comin'. (Aside.) Doggone it, I ain't no 
twins. If I don't tote dis fast enough for yo' yo' 
bettah git yo' another boy. (Exits left, and almost im- 
mediately re-enters without tray. Drops exhausted 

110 



F IFTY 'F IFTY m 

into chair.) Whew. I' gettin' doggone tired bein' a 
bartender fo' them fellers. I hired out fo' a valley 
three weeks ago, but I ain't done a lick of valleyin'. 
All I done is tote grub an' liquor from pantry to con- 
sumers. {Electric door hell rings, off center. He 
listens, locates sound and shakes head.) Dat's de 
doorbell. Dere am too doggone many bells in dis house 
fo' one valley. (Rises slowly as doorbell rings again.) 
Well, I suppose I has to see who it am. (Exits center. 
Slight pause.) 

Cap' enters through arch, from hall, followed by 

Smudge. ^ , 

Cap'. 

Reckon you*re the cook of this bloomin* craft, eh? 

Smudge. 
No, sah; I'm de valley. Dat is, I is an' I ain't — 
mostly ain't. Has yo' all got a card? 

Cap\ 
Card.^ What kind of a card? (Comes down center 
glancing about him curiously.) 

Smudge. 
A card wid yo' name wrote on it, which I takes to 
de boss and den he tells me if he am at home or ain't. 

Cap'. 
Oh, I see. Well, you black landlubber, I don't care 
whether the skipper is aboard or ain't. What I want 
to know is if you're carryin' anything aboard in the 
line of women folks. _ 

bMUDGE. 

No, sah. We is all gentlemen heah. 

Cap'. 

Sure? -, 

Smudge. 

Cross mah heart. 



112 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Cap'. 

Well, I'll take your word for it. (Goes toward arch.) 

I'll cast off now and cruise around outside a bit. If 

yer lyin' to me I'll sure find it out, and then look out 

for a rough sea. I kick up some dirty weather when 

I git started. So long, Sambo. (Swaggers out through 

hall.) c. 

^ Smudge. 

Lordy, but he's a unpolite man. (The front door is 

heard to slam. His eyes roll in terror.) I'll bet dat 

man is a pirate. (Phone bell on table rings. He starts, 

and is relieved to discover it is only the phone bell. 

Disgustedly.) Mah goodness, dem bells will sure 

drive me — oh shut up! I'm comin'. (Comes to table, 

receiver to ear.) Hello! * * * Yes, dis am de 

residence of Mr. Henry Brown, but it ain't him con- 

versin' with yo'. (Listens a moment.) Yes'm. Well, 

if yo' could tell it wasn't Mr. Brown talkin' maybe yo' 

know everythin' yo' wants to widout botherin' me. 

* * * Hey.? Who? Miss Bland? (Graciously.) 
I beg yo' pardon. Miss Bland. I thought it was de 
iceman talkin'. Don't you want to speak to him? 

* * * Oh, jes' take a message? All right, ma'am. 
Wait till I get a pen. (Picks up pen; writes as if 

\ing a message.) Go ahead. (Repeats message.) 
</es' say to Mr. Brown dat nothin' kin expiate (stutters 
over word) yo' conduct." Dat all? * * * AH 
right. Miss Bland. Good-bye. (Hangs up receiver.) 
Whew! I'm glad she got dat out of her system. I 
wonder what dat "ex" word means. (Chuckles.) 
Wonder who she is. (Bell off left rings. Smudge 
starts to answer it when telephone bell rings again. 
He hesitates, undecided which to answer first, when bell 
off left again rings. He wavers and drops into a chair, 
disgustedly.) Yo' two bells fight it out. I'm gwine 
fo' to remain neutral. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 113 



(The telephone bell rings again.) 
Paul enters from the left. 

Paul. 
{To Smudge.) 
Say, you, don't you hear those bells? {Goes to tele- 
phone, singing, ''Hear dem hells, don't you hear dem 
helUr') {To Smudge.) Mr. Brown is all out of 

P^^"*- Smudge. 

{Rising.) 
Yes, sah. Scotch or rye? 

Paul. 
Both. {Puts receiver to ear and speaks gruffly.) 
Hello! {Graciously.) Oh! Miss Dexter! * * * 
What? * * * (Smudge grins and goes out right.) 
Well, it did take me off my feet. * * * We're 
sort of — in retirement, you know. * * * Run 
away? Oh, nothing of the kind; of course not. We 
just — well, we had a lot of work to do. * * * 
What's that? This morning's papers? * * *^ No, 
we never — say — listen — May — {Fatties the receiver.) 
Confound it! She rang off— and she laughed at me. 
{Thinks deeply for a moment, then goes to door at 
left and calls.) Henry! 

Henry. 
(Off left.) 

What? ^ 

Paul. 

Trouble. ^ , , ^. 

Henry enters from the left. 

Henry. 
What do you mean, trouble? 
Paul. 
They've found us. 



114 FIFTY-FIFTY 





Henry. 


Who is "they"? 


Paul. 


May Dexter. 


Henry. 


How do you know? 


Paul. 


She telephoned. 


Henry. 


The deuce she did! 


What did she say? 




Paul. 


She said, "Have you see this morning's New York 


papers r 


Henry. 


Then what? 





Paul. 

Then she handed me the ha-ha, and rang off. I 

wonder what's in the papers. Maybe we can get one 

down at the station. 

Henry. 

I don't want to know what's in the papers. I should 

think by this time your appetite for publicity would be 

satisfied. Why did you give me a stolen painting? 

Paul. 
Why did you give me a deserted wife ? 

Henry. 
By jinks, we're still going fifty-fifty. 

Paul. 

Well, what are we going to do? That's the question. 

Smudge enters from right. 

Smudge. 
{To Henry.) 
Excuse me, boss, I jes' happened fo' to remember. 
I done got a phone message fo' yo' from Miss Bland. 
She's at de Mountain House, down at de village. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 115 

Henry. 

{Quickly.) 

Why didn't you say so? (Eagerly.) What did she 

say — quick? (Paul paces to and fro, rubbing hands 

and smiling.) ^ 

Smudge. 

{Takes paper on which he wrote message.) 

She say fo' me to tell yo' dat nothin' kin expectorate 

yo' conduct. 

Henry. 

(Puzzled, snatches paper from Smudge, scans it.) 

Impossible. She never said "expectorate." 

Smudge. 
Boss, it was "ex" somethin'. Doggone it, I knew 
dat word was gwine cause trouble. 

Henry. 
(Suddenly.) 
I have it. It was "expiate." 

Smudge. 
(Joyfully.) 
Dat's it! Dat's de word, boss. 

Henry. 

(Glumly.) 
Oh, it's no use. It's all off. She's right. There's 
nothing can. (Suddenly, to Paul.) Say, what are you 
so merry about? (Smudge tidies things on the table.) 

Paul. 

You poor old killjoy! She's coming up here — don't 

you understand? 

Henry. 

(Groans.) 

You lucky dog! Did she say she was? 

Paul. 
No, she said she wasn't — that's why I'm sure she 



116 FIFTY-FIFTY 

will. A cinch double play in the game of love, son. 
She's ready to kiss and make up. 

Henry. 
Humph! Wish I had your disposition. 

Paul. 

You've no cause to be downhearted. Sophie sent 
you a cheering message. 

Henry. 

{Glumly.) 
Yes, she did. "Nothing can expiate your conduct." 
That's ghastly cheering, if you ask me. 

(Smudge shuffles out the right door.) 

Paul. 
Son, you're lucky and don't know it. Now, the literal 
female translation of "Nothing can expiate your con- 
duct" is: "I'm just dying to give you a chance to ex- 
plain." _.-. 

Henry. 

{Eagerly.) 
Do you really think so? 

Paul. 
Cinch! Anyhow, you haven't really done anything 
criminal. Any more than I. Mrs. Podge is to blame. 
She couldn't keep a secret. 

Henry. 

{Dismally.) 
Oh, we're to blame — not she. That woozie idea of 
mine started the trouble. And your idea of free pub- 
licity put the finishing touches to it. 

Paul. 
Trouble.^ I can't see how you figure we have any 
— that we can't keep ahead of. Thirty days ago we 
were living in that awful New York lodging house. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 117 

poverty-stricken and actually hungry. Today we are 
occupying a handsome bungalow in the Adirondacks, 
with oodles of clothes to wear and plenty to eat and 
drink. You have sold your "mahogany sea." I'm sell- 
ing all I can write. You're painting a portrait of 
Roxanna Wheatpitt. Any comeback, son? 

Henry. 

{Earnestly.') 
Yes. Everything we have was obtained under false 
pretenses. We've been living a lie for the past month. 
I've lost my self-respect — and the love of the sweetest 
girl in all the world ! As for selling the "mahogany 
sea/' as you call it, when the judge sums up that'll 
mean another five years. But I'm through with it all! 
I can't travel under false colors any longer. 

Paul. 
{Drops weakly into chair, a picture of comic dismay.) 
You poor simp ! 

{To easel, pointing finger at canvas.) 

Look at that; a libel on art. And I'll get $500.00 for 

it. {Draws fist bacJc as if to drive it through the 

canvas.) -, 

Paul. 

{Springs to Henry and seizes his arm.) 

Oh, no, you don't! You'll not wallop Roxanna 

Wheatpitt in the jaw while I'm around. You coward, 

to strike a woman! __. 

Henry. 

But look at it — look at that face! {With a dis- 
gusted gesture he leaves easel, comes to table and toys 
idly with paper weight.) 

Paul. 

{Soothingly.) 
1 know, son; it's awful. But you can't help it. Prov- 



118 FIFTY-FIFTY 

idence gave her that face — you didn't. (Forcibly.) Now 
listen ! I'm not going to punish you for your raving 
against being a millionaire in name only. Maybe you're 
right about that. But if you don't finish up this thing 
here and earn real honest money, I shall spank you and 
send you to bed without any supper. When you paint 
a face like hers, you've earned any amount of money 
vou can grab. Does that sink in? Here's some more. 
Don't let me hear any more hysterical ravings out of 
you — understand? We're not going back to that ter- 
rible nightmare of an existence! We've got a toehold 
on Mister Hardluck and we're bound to throw him. 
We'll figure it out, some way. All I ask is a few more 
days. Then if things don't look rosy — well, we'll go 

to work, mavbe! __ 

Henry. 

Go to work? No chance. The only place I expect 

to ffo is iail. 

^ -^ Paul. 

Now son, leave it to me; just leave it to me — 

Henry. 
Leave it to you? I'm afraid the judge won't let me. 
Whatever it is, it'll be fifty-fifty. 

Doorbell rings. Smudge enters from right and starts 
for arch. 

Henry. 

Smudge! (Smudge turns.) If that's a man in a 

blue uniform — 

Paul. 

Knock him cold first, and take his card afterwards. 

Smudge. 
Man in blue uniform? 

Henry. 
Yes. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 119 

Smudge. 

Dey was a man in a blue uniform heah a little bit 

ago, sah. 

Paul. 

(Alarmed.) 

There was? 

Henry. 

Where did he ffo? ^ 

Smudge. 

Dunno suh, boss. Said he'd be back. 

Paul. 

I'm afraid he'll keep his word. 

(Doorbell rings again, and Smudge starts toward 

arch.) __ 

Henry. 

Smudge! (Smudge, startled, turns.) Don't let 

anyone in this house, except over your dead body ! 

Smudge. 
(Disturbed.) 
Yes, suh. No, suh. (Exits, not too courageously, 
through arch to front door.) 

(Henry and Paul go out through the left door.) 
Smudge re-enters, backing in, followed by a gaudily 
dressed and unattractive female who is the subject of 
the new portrait, Roxanna Wheatpitt. She is attired 
in handsome motoring costume. She carries a large 
sheet of paper, rolled up. 

Smudge. 
I'm powerful sorry, lady, but dey ain't in. 

Roxanna. 

(Comes to fireplace.) 
It's strange. This is the hour I am to sit. 

Smudge. 
(Nervously.) 
Yes'm. Take a seat. 



120 FIFTY-FIFTY 

ROXANNA. 

(Lays rolled paper on table and removes hat and wrap.^ 
You don't understand. Mr. Brown was to finish 
my portrait today. I believe I better wait. {Seats 
herself in easy chair.) It's awfully cozy here. 

Smudge. 
Yes'm. (Aside.) I wonder where I kin hide de 
body! (To Roxanna.) Lady, yo' jes* make yo'self 
comfort'ble till I run down to de cellar and git de axe. 
(Exit right. She eyes his conduct in surprise.) 

Henry. 

(Off left, loudly.) 
No, Paul. I tell you I'm done with all subterfuge. 
I'm going to tell the truth! 

Henry and Paul enter from the left. Paul t* trying 
to restrain Henry. 

Paul. 
Say, son, behave! You promised to be good. 

Roxanna. 

(Rises.) 

Oh, Mr. Brown! Your man told me you were not 

at home. (Simpers.) ^ 

Paul. 

(Aside.) 
Thank heaven, I still have a few more minutes be- 
fore the wagon gets here. (Exits quickly, left.) 

Henry. 
(To Roxanna.) 
Smudge meant that I was not at home to some. 
Miss Wheatpitt. But to you — always ! (Prepares can- 
vas, paint and brush.) 

Roxanna. 
(Simpering.) 
Oh, Mr. Brown! (Comes to canvas, surveys it.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 121 

It's simply splendid! You don't think it flatters me, 
do you? (^Comedy grimace.) 

Henry. 
Flatter you? Nothing could ever do that, Miss 
\^ heatpitt. (^Places chair for her, facing canvas. She 
sits, he poses her.) Eyes more to the front, please. 
(Moves her face away from him.) That's better. 
(Aside.) I'm ashamed to have you look at me while 
I do this. _ 

ROXANNA. 

You'll tell me when I attain the right expression, 
won't you? (Distorts face.) 

Henry. 
No, no. Miss Wheatpitt. Remember, you are sitting 
for your portrait — not eating breakfast food. (She 
changes facial expression.) There, that's better. That 
is, as better as it can be. Just hold that pose for a 
couple of hours — I'll be through in a couple of minutes. 
(Works with brush rapidly.) 

Smudge enters from the right with a letter in his 
hand. Starts to cross. 

Smudge. 
(Chanting, page fashion.) 
Mr. Green! Mr. Paul Green! Letter fo' Mr. Paul 
Green ! 

(RoxANNA and Henry turn and eye Smudge in 

astonishment.) _._ 

Henry. 

(To Smudge.) 

Smudge, what do you mean by paging Mr. Green? 

Smudge. 
(Turning at left door.) 
Well, sah, I don't know whether he am home or not. 
Sometimes he am when he ain't, and sometimes he 
ain't when he am. 



122 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 

You know he's in there. Fade! 

Smudge. 
Yes, suh. {Exits left, chanting.) Mr. Paul Green — 
letter fo' Mr. Paul Green! 

(RoxANNA and Henry laugh. The doorbell rings.) 

Henry. 

{Resumes work with brush.) 
You may now assume your former pose, Miss Wheat- 
pitt. {She poses.) 

Smudge enters, in comedy hurry, from the left. 

Henry. 
You know this is the last sitting. Glad? 

Smudge. 
Doggone de man what invented electricity ! Mah dogs 
is plumb weary. {Exits through arch to answer bell.) 

RoXANNA. 

{Sighs.) 
Glad? No, I'm sorry. It has all been so delightful. 
{Pause. Suddenly.) I'll tell you. I'll ask father to 
let me sit for a full length. (Henry, startled, drops 
brush to floor and makes a wry face.) Could you 
spare me the time, Mr. Brown? You could, couldn't 
you? {Rises, comes to him, gazes at him in comedy 
pleading manner.) Look at me, Mr. Brown — Henry! 
Don't you see the conflagration burning in my eyes — 
a reflection of the love that is consuming my very soul? 
No, no! Don't look at me that way, Henry dear. I 
know it's unmaidenly, but I — I cannot restrain the 
seething volcano that is burning within me! {She 
kneels at his feet, pleadingly , with arms outstretched. 
He takes her hands with the intention of raising her to 
her feet, when — ) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 123 

Sophie bursts into the room through the arch. 
Smudge, worried but helpless, follows her in. 

Sophie. 
(Gaily.) 
Surprise! (She recoils at the apparent love-making 
scene, while Roxanna rises and hangs her head in bash- 
ful confusion. Henry stares dumbfoundedly at Sophie.) 

Henry. 

Sophie ! 

Sophie. 
You faithless monster! 

Henry. 
My dear — I can explain — 

Sophie. 
(Half sobbingly.) 
No, no; I'm sorry I ever came. I should have known 
better. (Bows head sadly and starts to go.) 

Henry. 
Stop! (She faces him.) You shall not go until yon 
have heard me! What you just saw means absolutely 
nothing to me. I swear it! 

Roxanna. 

(To Henry, sobbing.) 

Oh, Henry, how can you say that? You will break 

my trusting heart! (Dabs her handkerchief to her 

eyes.) 

Sophie. 

(Coldly, to Henry.) 
You see? 

Paul, excitedly waving a letter, dashes in from the 
left. 



124 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 

{Checks his rush abruptly.) 
Well;, I'll be darned! (Stares amazed at one sobbing 
girl and then the other.) 

Henry. 

(To Paul.) 

This is my pasrty — and you're not invited. Go back 

home ! _, 

Paul. 

Well;, it looks like some party, take it from me! 

(To Sophie.) I knew you'd come. (Advances toward 

her, but she turns coldly away. He addresses Henry 

in disgust.) Well, you certainly have got things 

beautifully balled up ! (Strides out, left.) 

Smudge enters from the left and stares open-mouthed 
at the scene. 

Henry. 
(Forcibly.) 
I herewith appoint myself chairman of the In-Right 
Club, and do hereby call an executive meeting of this 
newly-organized organization. (To Smudge.) Smudge, 
I appoint you sergeant-at-arms. Nobody is to leave 
or enter this house without my sanction. (Smudge goes 
up center, salutes and stands rigidly, waiting orders. 
To RoxANNA, firmly but politely.) Miss Wheatpitt, 
you will appreciate the fact that, under existing condi- 
tions, it will be impossible for me to proceed with your 
sitting. Smudge, Miss Wheatpitt has decided she must 
leave at once. Show her to her car. 

ROXANNA. 

(Spi7'itedly.) 
I was here first. I don't see why I should give up 
my appointment. (Starts to don hat and coat.) How- 
ever, it doesn't matter. (Giggles.) True love will not 



FIFTY-FIFTY 125 

be denied. (Simpers at Henry. Starts up center and 

turns. To Sophie.) However, I will say in justice 

to Mr. Brown that his love for me has not yet reached 

an acute stage. But it is only a question of time. 

My heart tells me so. True love endures forever — it 

has no regrets! (Giggles, blows kiss to Henry, and 

continues to primp.) ^ 

Sophie. 

(To Henry.) 

Henry, I — I wonder whether you are innocent. 

Henry. 
Darling, come to my arms! (Opens arms to her.) 

Sophie. 

(About to rush into his arms, but stops suddenly.) 

But how about that — (dubiously) that other little 

matter? (Roxanna watches and listens furtively.) If 

Paul was married, how do I know that there isn't some 

hidden chapter in your life? Perhaps — 

Henry. 
(Comes center.) 
He is as innocent as I. He's no more married than 
I am. 

(The doorbell rings, and someone is heard treading 
in the hall.) 

Smudge. 

Dey got in ! Somebody must a lef ' de front do' open ! 

(Dashes out center.) _ 

oophie. 

You are still on trial. While it is true you were not 

accused of being married, still — 

Henry. 
(Eagerly breaking in.) 
All a joke — nothing to it. After we kiss and make 
up, I'll explain. (Opens arms. They are about to em- 



126 FIFTY-FIFTY 

brace, when there is a brief scuffle in the hallway, 
and — ) 

Josephine enters. She is grotesquely attired in ab- 
surd finery. She takes center and surveys the scene. 
Smudge follows her in, helplessly. 

Smudge. 
(To Henry.) 
Boss, I couldn't help it. I didn't have a thing handy 
to kill it with. 

(Henry and Sophie have separated hastily.) 

Josephine. 
I hate to puncture budding romances, but business 
is business with me. 

(Henry steps limply back, left, and Sophie and Rox- 
ANNA go right, instinctively drawing together.) 

Henry. 
Woman, who are you.'' 

Paul appears, unnoticed, in the left doorway, and 
stands listening and observing. 

Josephine. 
Who am I? 

(Paul comes further into the room, toward the arch.) 

Smudge. 
Dat's what he done said, lady. Dat's what we all 
say. Who is you? And if so, why? 

Josephine. 
Why, I'm Mrs. Paul Green, I am, and I*ve come 
for my husband! 

(Paul is thunderstruck, but has enough presence of 
mind to jump back of the screen and await develop- 
ments.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 127 

Henry. 

(In awful bewilderment.) 

Mrs. Paul Green! 

Josephine. 

You heard me. __ 

Henry. 

I heard you. But it's impossible! Why — 

Josephine. 

(Interrupting.) 

Nothin's impossible. Paul ought to know that by 

this time. He tried to give me the slip and make me 

think I was a widder two years ago, and I says good 

riddance to bad rubbage. Now he's rich and famous, 

and I want him back. __ 

Henry. 

(Hotly.) 

What's the idea of perpetrating this joke? 

Josephine. 
Joke.^ Look here, young feller. Do I act as if I 
thought I was funny? 

I see; blackmail. You're trying to shake us down. 

Josephine. 
Let me get my hands on that triflin', no-account hus- 
band of mine, and I'll shake him down, all right! 
Henry. 
I understand now. You're after money. Well, you 

aren't going to get — _. 

Josephine. 

He can't get rid of me that easy. When I wamt a 

husband, I don't want money. I'll get him, and then 

^'11 get both. 

Henry. 

Stop ! You are going too far ! 

Josephine. 
Say, I ain't half way yet to where I will be. Where 
is he? Trot him out! 



128 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Sophie. 

At last we are getting at the truth of this. And he 
told me — ^ 

ROXANXA. 

{Comforting her.) 
There, there, dear. I guess we have to learn some 
time that all men are alike. 

Sophie. 
{Sohhing.) 
Especially some of them. 

ROXANNA. 

{Philosophically .) 
And that seems to be the kind that we have met. 

Henry. 
It's all a mistake. Paul can explain this — 

RoXANNA. 

How can he ever explain.^ 

Josephine. 
Lawzy, 'tain't nothin' for him to explain. He just 
tried to give me the slip, and I didn't slip. That's all. 

Henry. 

{Coaxingly.') 

Oh, come now, my dear madam. You don't expect 

that story to hold together, do you? If he really were 

your husband, and had disappeared two years ago. and 

you waited until now to hunt him, you must admit 

that vou — , 

Josephine. 

{Emphatic ally.) 
I neither admit, deny, affirm or otherwise jeopardize 
my standing in the case. A husband is a husband. 
That's final! 

{Doorbell rings. Smudge, who has been standing in 
archway, looks inquiringly at Henry.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 129 

Hexry. 

{To Smudge.) 
See who it is. 

(Smudge goes aid through ihe arch.) 
Sophie. 

{To ROXAXNA.) 

We had better go. 

ROXANXA. 

I quite agree with you. 

Hexry. 
No. you mustn't. This thing's got to be settled, once 
and for all! 

Smudge enters from the hall, followed by Cap'. 

(Josephixe has her bach to him and does not see him. 
She turns quickly as Cap' begins to speak. Paul, hav- 
ing heard the bell, looks over the top of the screen and 

icatches Cap"* enter.) 

Cap . 

{To Hexry, pidling at his forelock.) 

Are YOU the captain of this craft, sir.^ 

Hexry. 
This is a fifty-fiftY establishment. (Josephixe is 
staring icild-eyed at Cap"*.) 

CAP^ 

Well, sir, I got inside information that you got a 

strange craft in this port that's flyin' my colors from 

the masthead, and — ^ 

Josephix^e. 

{Screams.) 
Captain Paul Green! My little pollywog! My hus- 
band! ^ , 

Cap . 

{Turning to her.) 
Josephine Anna — my wife! Come to my arms, my 



180 FIFTY-FIFTY 

darlin'. {Opens his arms. The others betray their 
keen interest in the scene.) 

Josephine. 
(Drawing back.) 
I ain't taking no orders from you, sir. Further- 
more, I can't understand why you're not at the bottom 
of the sea, instead of high and dry and alive on top of 
a mountain. You never did anything right in your life ! 

Cap'. 
My darlin', aren't you glad to see me? 

Josephine. 
(Stiffly.) 
I can't speak the truth and say that I am. I thought 
I was getting a rich and famous husband. 

Cap'. 
Ho, ho ! That accounts for yer weddin' riggin', eh ? 

Paul. 

(Coming to Cap' from behind screen.) 

Mr. Green, I — ^ . 

Cap'. 

Well, Cap'n Green, you don't know me, but permit 

o' the Nancv Bell — _ 

Paul. 

Well, Cap'n Green, you don't know me, but permit 

me to thank you for being here — with all my heart. 

Henry. 
(To Josephine.) 
Permit me to offer my hearty congratulations. Please 
take your husband and — 

Josephine. 
Hmph! Can't see that he's a mite better lookin* or 
better off than he was when he went and got drowned 
at sea. Say, who's that other young feller.'* (Indicates 
Paul.) 



FIFTY-FIFTY 131 

Henry. 
Him? Why, that's my pal — the man I thought you 
were trying to kidnap. 

(Paul, Cap', Sophie and Roxanna have engaged in 
what appears to he a jolly conversation.) 

Josephine. 
Kidnap.^ Are you drunk, or crazy, or what? 

Henry. 
Don't you understand? That's Paul Green. 

Josephine. 
Him? Paul Green? The feller that writes pieces 
and has a lot o' money? 

Henry. 
Why, yes. That's the man. 

Josephine. 
{Wistfully.) 
I thought it was my Cap' a makin' a man of himself. 
(Looks earnestly and sadly at Cap', and shakes her 
head.) An* to think I came all the way from Milwaukee 
for that! (Sighs.) Well, I guess there ain't nothing 
left for me but to take Cap' back with me. 

Cap'. 

(Overhearing her.) 
Yes, darlin', come. But I was thinkin' that as long 
as ye have them weddin' togs on, we might do a little 
celebratin' by takin' a trip to Niagara Falls. 

Josephine. 
Niagara Falls? Hmph! Is that place still running? 
(To Henry.) I hope you don't bear no grudge against 
me, or any of you, for the matter of that. I was only 
doing my duty. 



132 FIFTY-FIFTY ^ 

Henry and Paul. 
{Together, graciously.) 
Of course. 
Certainly. 

Josephine. 
I'm glad of that. {To Cap'.) All right, Cap'. Like 
a lamb that's to be led to slaughter, I'm ready to go. 
But I want to warn you right now, you'll not go galli- 
vantin' to sea an}^ more. No, sirree ! You'll stay right 
at home, working steady at your job as husband. Good- 
bye, folks. , 
Cap . 

{Pulling at his forelock.) 
Same here, folks. Everythin's shipshape now, and 
any time I kin do ye a service, ye'U find me all safe and 
snug in my own little home harbor. 

(Cap"* and Josephine how to the others in exagger- 
ated comedy manner. Smudge hoxvs the two out the 
archway and totvard the door off stage, followed by 
hearty farewells and blessings from the others.) 

Henry. 

{To Paul.) 
Old pal, I congratulate you on the sea giving up its 
dead. {Shakes his hand heartily.) 

Paul. 
{To Henry.) 
Henry, old son, I congratulate you on having your 
sweetheart right on hand, all ready to forgive and for- 
get, to kiss and make up. 

Sophie. 
{Sniffing superciliously.) 
Hmph! Kiss and make up? The idea! After all 
the stories you two have been telling, do you expect me 
ever to believe anything you say? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 133 

RoXANNA. 

{Condoling with her.) 
That's right, dearie. They may not be married, but 
they certainly can fib just like married men. 

Paul. 
(With injured innocence.) 
Fibs.'' What fibs have we been telling? 

Sophie. 
Paul Green, why did you say that you were a mar- 
ried man.^ 

Paul. 

{Ruefully.) 
I didn't say it. Henry said it. 

Sophie. 
{To Henry.) 
Why did you say it? 

Henry. 
Mrs. Podge didn't approve of your coming to our 
studio. So I told her Paul was a perfectly good chap- 
eron, because he was an old married man. 

Sophie. 
{Meditatively.) 
Well, if you did it for my sake — of course that's dif- 
ferent. But then why did you say that she was dead ? 

Paul. 
Jumping Jupiter! You don't suppose I wanted a 
wife on my hands after I met May Dexter, do you? 
And now imagine what she must think of me! 

Sophie. 
Well, what do you think of her? 

Paul. 
Think of her? She's the most wonderful, beautiful. 



134 FIFTY-FIFTY 

adorable girl in the world! I love her with all my 
heart and soul! {With a sudden thought.^ Say! I 
wonder what it was in this morning's newspapers that 
she called me up about, all the way from New York? 

ROXANNA. 

Who was it called you up? 

Paul. 
Miss May Dexter? 

RoXANNA. 

May Dexter? Why, she isn't in New York. She's 

staying at the Mountain House down in the i^illage. 

Got here this morning. _. 

Paul. 

{Excitedly.^ 

What? May is here? Sophie! Have you seen her? 

(Sophie laughs mysteriously.^ 

RoXANNA. 

{Leaning forward, confidentially .^ 

Mr. Green, May Dexter is a queer girl. I know her 

well. You never know what she's going to do the next 

moment. 

Paul. 

I don't care. That's why I like her. 

Roxanna. 
She has been having you watched. 

Henry. 
Watched? What for? 

Roxanna. 

And if your strange stories and actions had led to 

anything incriminating, she was going to expose you 

publicly ! ^ 

Paul. 

Say, you seem to know a lot about this. Who are 

you, anyway? 



FIFTY-FIFTY 135 

ROXANNA. 

{Throwing off her hat and false curls and removing 

her spectacles.) 
Little Sherlock, the girl detective! 

Paul and Henry. 
{In unison.) 

May Dexter! 

Sophie. 

(Laughing heartily.) 

Fooled you! ^ 

Paul. 

{Moving to embrace May.) 

May! I— 

May. 

{Good-naturedly motioning him away.) 

Not yet, young man, you still have a lot to explain. 

Henry. 
Old pal, I congratulate you on having your sweet- 
heart right at hand, all ready to forgive and forget, 

to kiss and make up! 

^ Paul. 

Hail, hail! 

Henry. 

The gang's all here! 

(Henry and Paul clasp hands and execute a few 
outlandish steps, singing loudly, ''Hail, hail, the gang's 
all here.*' The girls observe this with manifest amuse- 
ment.) ^ 

Sophie. 

It's like a dream. A few weeks ago everything was 
against you. And now — well, you're prosperous and 
famous. How did you boys do it, anyway? 

Paul. 
It all began the day you girls sold the picture for us. 

May. 
We sold a picture? Wliat picture? 



136 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 
The one you raved about when it was upside down. 
Well^ that taught us a lesson. We decided if the public 
wanted things upside down, we'd do 'em that way. So 
I began painting pictures upside down. 

Paul. 
And I wrote my stories and plays upside down. I 
turned 'em all upside down, and I sold 'em. 

May. 
We understand that one fib about the wife in Mil- 
waukee. But how about the stolen painting? 

Paul. 
Well, the publicity that we got seemed to put us 
on our feet, so I thought we might as well have a little 
more of a good thing. -^ 

{Laughing.^ 

You monsters ! Don't you know it might have landed 

you behind the bars.^ _, 

Paul. 

{Ruefully.) 

I admit it started more than I bargained for. I 

realize now that it's possible to get too much of a 

good thing. g^^^^^ 

And Henry! That picture that never was lost — 

well, it's been found! _^ 

Henry. 

Found .f* What do you mean? 

Sophie. 
{To May.) 
Shall we tell them now? 



Yes; let's. 
Tell us what? 



May. 
Paul. 



FIFTY-FIFTY 137 

May. 
What's in the morning's papers. 

Paul. 
{Suddenly forlorn.) 
I knew it; it was too good to last. 

Henry. 
Come on. This suspense is terrible. 

Sophie. 
Well — don't you know what last night was? 

Paul. 
Why should we watch the calendar? 

Sophie. 

Your show, "The Primrose Path/' opened at the 

Rosebud Gardens. 

Paul. 

Gosh, I forgot all about the show. Well, come on, 

I'm prepared. Was it a flivver? 

May. 
Flivver? It was a grand and glorious hit! 

Paul. 

Suffering codfish ! That means real money ! May — 

will vou marry me? 

Henry. 

Never mind about that. Where does my picture 

come in? _, 

Paul. 

You heartless wretch — interrupting a proposal! {To 

May.) Will you? 

Henry. 

{Insistently.) 

What about my picture? How could they find a 

picture that wasn't lost, and who found it? 

Sophie. 
May found it. 



138 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Henry. 

For the love of Mike, how could she find something 

that didn't exist? 

May. 

But it did exist. Paul described it to me, very 

exactly. {Goes to table and picks up the rolled paper 

which she brought with' her.) 

Paul. 
Why, I described the one he made of Sophie in her 
Spanish costume; the only real picture he ever painted 
in his life. 

(May unrolls the paper and holds it up. The pals go 
to her and look over her shoulders, one on either side.) 

Paul. 
(Reading.) 
" 'The Primrose Path/ by Paul Green." 

Henry. 

Why — they've used it for a poster of the show ! How 

did thev get it? ^ 

Sophie. 

May took it to them; the stolen painting found at 

last ; don't you see what a newspaper story it made ? 

Paul. 
{To May.) 
You took it to them ? 

Sophie. 
She has quit her job on the newspaper. They've 
made her press agent for the Rosebud Gardens. 



Paul. 

Holy Moses ! And we thought we knew something 

out publicity ! 

Henry. 

See here! That would be all right, but how about 



^ FIFTY-FIFTY 139 

their using it without my consent? That's Sophie's 

picture. __ 

^ May. 

Well, why shouldn't it he? She's the star of the 

show. -., 

Henry. 

Sophie? „ 

^ Paul. 

What? ,, 

May. 

And the management wants you to turn out another 

play for them within six months, Paul. And Henry is 

to design the posters. 

Henry. 

(Enthusiastically seizing Sophie a?id trying to get 

her to join him in a war dance.) 

Sophie, the star of the show! And now I can paint 

'em rightside up! (Dances fantastically.) 

Sophie. 
You approve of me now, Henry? 

Henry. 

Sure I do. ^ 

Sophie. 

I told you you would. And I told you I'd make you 

dance, too, before I got through. 

Henry. 

(With a playful grimace.) 

You win! ^ 

Paul. 

Why, it looks like a closed corporation. 

May. 

How do you mean? ^ 

^ Paul. 

Well, Sophie is the star — 

Henry. 
And Paul is the author — 



140 FIFTY-FIFTY 

Paul. 
And Henry does the posters — 

Henry. 
{To May.) 
And the press agent tells the world about it — 

May. 
I see what you mean. We cut the melon in four 
pieces. 

Paul. 
{Emphatically .) 
No, we won't! We'll cut it in two pieces. 

Sophie. 
In two pieces? How's that? 

Paul. 
{Drawing May to him.) 
Half for the Browns, and half for the Greens. Fifty- 
fifty. 

Smudge enters from, the right. 

Smudge. 
Last call fo' luncheon in de dinin' car ! Last call fo' 
luncheon in de dinin' car ! 

(Henry and Sophie, and Paul and May, start hap- 
pily for the door on the right, while Smudge beams 
beneficently upon the two couples, and — ) 

The Curtain Falls. 



When Smith Stepped Out 

BY 

Harry Osborne 

A COMEDY, in 3 acts; 4 males, 4 females. Time, 
about 2 hours. Scene: 1 interior throughout. 

"Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith." 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

William Horace Smith Uncle Bill 

George Smith His Nephew 

Richard Keene A Detective 

Bob Stanley A Wooer 

Mrs. George Smith Nellie 

Muriel Armitage Her Younger Sister 

Miss Winslow A Spinster 

Hilda The Maid at the Smith's 

Did you ever stop to think how dangerous it is to 
carry a loaded revolver? Dear, old, absent-minded 
Uncle Bill Smith, from Australia on a visit, starts 
something difficult to finish when he steps out for 
his evening walk with a revolver in his pocket. He 
innocently robs a man of his watch, loses his hat, 
gives the detective a merry chase, almost sees the 
inside of a jail and just escapes tlie matrimonial 
clutches of a desperate spinster. He all but breaks 
up one peaceful home but starts another by getting 
a bashful lover to propose and in the end has everyone 
stepping about as lively as the kangaroo from his 
native Australia. It all happens quickly, laughingly, 
mysteriously and thrillingly. After two hours of fast 
fun the audience "w'ill discover that melancholy, indi- 
gestion and worries have all stepped out witla the 
sick detective who left just as the curtain dropped. 
No star part, but strong characterization through- 
out, easily witliin the range of amateurs. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty of ten dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents 

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 



Old Maids 

BY 

Fanny Cannon 

A COMEDY in 3 acts; 5 males, 8 females. Time, 
2 hours. Scenes: 2 interioi's. 

CHARACTERS. 

Caselda Brown From New Yorlv 

Amanda Chase Her Aunt 

Alma Bellows Afraid of the Black List 

Mrs. Bemus No Old Maid, Thank Heaven! 

Miranda Purcell One of the Old Maids 

Abby Snyder Another 

Sarah Stone Still Another 

Emma Nelson And Another 

Christopher Bellows A Prosperous Farmer 

Jed Hopkins The Postmaster 

Henry Perkins The Village "Catch" 

William Bemus A Farmer 

Jasper Elwood From New York 

This might be called the tragi -comedy of a small 
town. Alma, aged 25, with a "horrible example" of a 
town full of unmated women, accepts the only mar- 
riageable young man in the neighborhood for fear of 
being an old maid. But Caselda, an attractive and 
youthful-seeming "old maid," arrives from New York, 
and in dramatic yet laughable fashion she turns things 
around, opening the eyes of her former townsmen and 
saving Alma from the "village beau." Running 
through the comedy is a vein of serious undercurrent 
on the status of the unattached female, and a hint as 
to the way out. Every person in OLD MAIDS is a 
"type" that invites the skill of the artistic performer. 
Miss Cannon is the author of many professional stage 
successes as well as an authority on the technique of 
playwriting. and in this comedy she offers rare oppor- 
tunity to a group of skillful character players. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty of fifteen dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents 



T. S. Denison & Company, PnUishers 

623 South Wabash Avenue CHICAGO 



Betty's Last Bet 

BY 

Edith Ellis 

A FARCE-COMEDY in 3 acts; 5 males, 6 females. 
Time, 2V^ hours. Scene: 1 interior. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Darling ..With Four Great Problems 

Kitty Her Eldest Daughter 

Peggy Her Second 

Dolly Her Third 

Betty • Her Fourth 

Hannah A Man-hating Servant 

Richard Wentworth Tlieir Wealthy Neighbor 

Percy Wentworth His Nephew and Ward 

Jack Van Loon Of the Historic Van Loons 

Hamilton Moriarity A Rising Young Legislator 

Edgar Darling A Student of Archaeology 

Betty's propensity for wagering keeps her in hot 
water, and her mother and sisters, too. Mrs. Darling 
is struggling bravely to promote matches for the other 
girls when Betty, expelled from boarding school, re- 
turns home disgraced but unabashed. And straight- 
way she makes her last bet — and her greatest one — 
with a likeable but unintroduced young man. He wa- 
gers that he can successfully impersonate a distant 
cousin, and get all the sisters engaged within twenty- 
four hours. Three kisses are the stakes. Betty's last 
bet incites an amazing train of complications, and 
when she loses the bet. she loses her heart as Avell. 
This author has a fine record of professional stage 
successes to her credit, and BETTY'S LAST BET 
is built from the same rich fund of lines and situations. 

Professional stage, rights reserved and a 
royalty of twenty dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents 



T. S, Denison & Company, Publishers 

6 23 South Wabash Avenue CHICAGO 



Mary's Millions 

BY 

Frederick G. Johnson 

A RURAL COMEDY in 3 acts; 5 males, 6 females, 
extras optional. Time, 2 hours. Scenes: 1 interior, 
1 exterior. 

CHARACTERS. 

Jack Henderson A Civil Engineer 

Jimmie Barnes His Friend from New Yorlc 

Ezra Stoneham The Village Storekeeper 

Abija Boggs A Human Flivver 

Victor de Selles An Imported Product 

Jane Stoneham Ezra's Better Halt 

Eudora Smith The Stoneham's" Hired Girl 

Lola de Selles Victor's Sister 

Mrs. Mudge Wedded to Her Ouija Board 

Betty Barlow A Country School Teacher 

Mary Manners An Heiress to Millions 

Members of the Choir. 

"When I go after a side partner, she's going to be 
a live-wire lady. No corn-fed beauties for mine." 
"Say — honest — is there anybody in this one-horse town 
that has a million dollars?" "I've read books, I have, 
about them slick rascals from the city." "Waitin' 
for the mail? Looks more like waitin' for the female." 
"More city folks, I'll bet a doughnut." "I believe in 
sperrits, but I ain't seen none sense the country went 
dry." "Stop scratchin'! Ain't you got no company 
manners?" "He looks like a head waiter and he 
talks like a bottle of seltzer." "All foreign wild ani- 
mals looks alike to me." "The greatest doin's since 
the mill dam busted." "What's been swiped an' who 
done it?" "Any clues? No, all genuine pearls." "She 
has chain lightning slowed down like the rural free 
delivery." "I foller the deeductive method. I don't 
take no clues off no Fiji board!" "Boy, I sure do 
hate to take you, but I reckon I got to." "Funny 
what a difference just a few millions make." "The 
third degree trimmed with hayseed." "Eudory, you 
say the durndest things!" 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty of fifteen dollars required for amateur 
performa7ice . Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents 

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

623 South Wabash Avenue CHICAGO 



Plays for Schools and Colleges 

THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN 

By Charles Ulrlch. Comedy in 3 acts; 12 males. Time, 
2 hours. Price, 25 Cents. 

THE KINGDOM OF HEART'S CONTENT 

By LIndsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 6 males, 12 fe- 
males. Time, 2^^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

MACBETH A LA MODE 

By Walter Ben Hare. Burletta in 3 acts; 7 males, 7 
females. Time. 1^ hours. Price, 25 Cents. 

MRS. TUBBS OF SHANTYTOWN 

By Walter Ben Hare. Comedy-drama In 3 acts; 4 
males, 7 females. Time, 214. hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

A POOR MARRIED MAN 

By Walter Ben Hare. Farce-comedy in 3 acts; 4 males, 
4 females. Time, 2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

A PRAIRIE ROSE ~" 

By Edith F. A. U. Palnton. Comedy-drama in 4 acts: 
7 males. 4 females. Time, 2% hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

THE REAL THING AFTER ALL 

By LIndsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 7 males, 9 fe- 
males. Time, 2y2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

RE-TAMING OF THE SHREW 

By John W. Postgate, Shakespearean travesty in 1 act; 
6 males, 5 females. Time. 45 minutes. Price, 25 Cents. 

RUTH IN A RUSH 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedy in 3 acts; 5 males. 7 fe- 
males. Time, ,21^ hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

SAVAGELAND 

By Walter Ben Hare. Musical comedy ^n 2 acts; 5 
males. 5 females. Time, 2% hours. Price, 76 Cents. 

SING A SONG OF SENIORS 

By Lindsey Barbee. Comedietta; 7 females. Time, 30 
minutes. Price, 25 Cents. 

STAR BRIGHT 

By Edith F. A. U. Pafnton. Comedy-drama in 3 acts: 
6 males, 5 females. Time, 2V2 hours. Price, 35 Cents. 

ZARAGUETA OR MONEY TALKS 

Translated from the Spanish by Clarence Stratton. 

Comedy in 2 acts; 7 males, 4 females. Time, 2 hours. 
^^_____^_^ Price, 35 Cents. 

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 



II-— 1121 



Denison's Acting Plays 

Our list comprises hundreds of titles 
— comedies, dramas, farces, vaudeville 
sketches, musical comedies and revues, 
minstrel material, little theatre playlets, 
etc. All shades of sentiment are rep- 
resented, and all varieties of talent, 
number of characters and time required 
In presentation are provided for in this 
list. Denison's Acting Plays contain 
detailed description of stage business, 
characters, costumes, settings, and full 
Instructions for staging. 

Popular Entertainment Books 

In this series are books touching 
every feature in the entertainment field; 
Dialogues for all ages. Speakers, Reci- 
tations, Monologues, Drills, Entertain- 
ments, suitable for all occasions; hand- 
books for home, school and church, etc. 
Over sixty titles, each written by a 
specialist in his given line. The books 
are finely made, clear print, good paper, 
and each has a most attractive, Individ- 
ual cover design. One of the best and 
most complete entertainment series 
published. 

Send for Complete Descriptive Catalogue 

T.S.Denison&Company^ Publishers 

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 






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